


From the Bottom of the Well

by SilentAuror



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dream Sequences, Flashbacks, Jealousy, M/M, POV: John Watson, Romance, Series 4 Fix-It, post-series 4, references to The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 09:23:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 36,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10851075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAuror/pseuds/SilentAuror
Summary: John keeps dreaming of being trapped in the well at Musgrave Hall. As Irene Adler makes a reappearance in their lives, the well proves to be an apt metaphor for John's inability to make a move toward what he's always wanted...





	From the Bottom of the Well

**From the Bottom of the Well**

 

_The water is up to his chin now. In vain, he tugs each foot independently, but it’s no use. The water is so high that he can’t even get a bit of leverage against the floor. It’s raining down on him, getting into his eyes and ears and making everything feel like a nightmare –_

_And then Sherlock is there, in the mouth of the well, shouting his name over the rushing of the water. He’s saying that he’s getting the water shut off and that help is coming. There’s a bright light behind him, making a halo behind his dark head, like some sort of avenging angel. The rope is dropped, and in all of the thundering water and the rushing in his ears, John doesn’t notice that Sherlock has climbed down the rope, coat and shoes and all, lowering himself into the cold, dark water._

_“Hold on,” he says, his voice strong and warm, an arm around John’s back, supporting him, and it’s such a relief; he was getting so tired._

_“I knew you’d come,” he says numbly, his teeth too cold to chatter. It’s not what he meant to say; he meant to say What took you so long and Where the hell have you been, Sherlock, I’ve been freezing my arse off in here, but instead that other thing says itself, and… yeah. He’s got both arms around Sherlock’s neck, keeping his head above the water. Sherlock’s taller, and it helps. He’s also warmer and that helps, too._

_Someone, somewhere, shuts off the water at last, and John could cry in relief. He thought he was going to drown here. Sherlock glances up toward the light. “Took them long enough,” he says, a bit crossly. His arm tightens around John. “I’ve got you,” he says, his voice gentle now that he doesn’t have to shout over the water. “Just hold on.”_

_John makes a sound that he can’t even classify, himself, but it might be a swallowed-down sob. He’s still clinging to Sherlock like some half-drowned creature pulled out of a flash flood, but Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind. He’s got his other arm around John now, but lets go for a second to push John’s dripping hair out of his eyes. The gesture is so surprisingly tender that John blinks. Their faces are close together, and for a moment they just look at each other, John’s legs floating, anchoring himself to the unwavering pillar of Sherlock’s form. He doesn’t know how it happens, exactly, but the next thing he knows, his mouth is on Sherlock’s. His lips are cool and wet, as John’s are, but then their mouths are open and John thinks that Sherlock’s mouth is even warmer than the rest of him. Sherlock isn’t objecting in the slightest, interestingly. He’s kissing back, his tongue pressing into John’s with rather the opposite of reluctance. It doesn’t seem to matter that John’s doing it with a desperation he didn’t know he possessed. He’s holding himself to Sherlock with his legs now, too, not wanting to float away from him – wanting the very opposite, in fact, to press himself against Sherlock and join himself to the warmth of his form, only he’s limited in how far he can get with the chains around his ankles. He’s hard, he realises, and his eyes open –_

He’s awake in the dark of his bedroom, fist jerking furiously over his cock, and Jesus, that’s twisted, but he’s way too far gone now to stop – all he can think of is Sherlock’s tongue in his mouth and pressing up against him like that – John grunts twice, loudly, and comes all over the empty far side of the bed. He gives himself another stroke or two, letting it wind down, and listens to his own heavy breathing, strangely magnified in the dark of the room, his heart thumping. 

When it passes, he rolls back to look at the clock on his night table. There was a brief power outage last month and Mary’s clock is still blinking the wrong time. He never reset it. Didn’t seem to be much point, somehow. It’s 3:43am. The video monitor shows Rosie still sound asleep in her cot. John turns back onto his back and thinks of the dream. The well again. This time with the added twist of Sherlock being there in the well with him, and the kiss. John’s face grows hot in the dark of the room. For fuck’s sake. That’s the very last thing he needs, for that old, unnamed, shadowy thing to be surfacing again. And in combination with the well nightmare, too. How bizarre. Thanks to Eurus Holmes, he’s got a whole new array of nightmares to contend with: a bomb in the middle of the Baker Street sitting room, him trying to shoot a mostly-innocent man in the head, three dangling brothers to condemn, the paralysing sight of Sherlock holding a gun to the underside of his chin – but the one that comes back the most often is the damned well. 

He’s never felt so helpless, so unable to do something to save himself. Not even in Afghanistan. His feet held down – how did she know how to get to him so thoroughly? He knows the answer: because she spent five hours over three counselling sessions with him, one incomplete because she shot him with a tranquilizer. That was more than enough time to find out what would send him into a panic the fastest. He sees all of the connections now: she’d been the one to test the strength of his resolve with regards to Mary, appearing on his bus with her alluring smile. She knew how weak that resolve was. She knew that he would feel guilty after, that shooting the governor would hit all of those buttons for him. There’s probably very little she doesn’t know about him now. He told her just about everything as it is; the rest she could have deduced easily enough. He told her about his text affair long before she revealed herself as the girl from the bus. He told her how long it had taken him to go back to Mary and why, that it had been about Rosie more than anything else. He told her about not having known how he felt upon discovering he was going to be a father, and when she’d asked why, pressing him, he’d admitted that he thought it was going to compromise his availability to solve crimes with Sherlock. He remembers now how she’d smiled at that and said nothing, filing the information away. 

She must have realised the feelings he’s never fully acknowledged to himself. Now, in the middle of the night, he can look at them directly, with the bleak, stark realism they deserve. He’s always felt something. From the very start. He was foolish enough to probe into it, back when they’d only just met and knew nothing about each other. Maybe if he’d waited, Sherlock wouldn’t have given him the gentle brush-off line about being married to his work. Or maybe he would have. God knows he could have been ruder about it. John’s seen him refuse at least thirty or forty people since then. He’s always been invariably curt, usually fairly polite, though not always, but Sherlock was never as gentle with any of them as he was with him that night at Angelo’s. Sometimes his refusals came just in an incredulous, slightly contemptuous look or a roll of his eyes and nothing else. Other times it was a simple, brisk, _Not interested. But thank you for your help with the case. Come along, John._ The only one who’d ever got to him at all was Irene Adler, and that still makes John bristle. He honestly doesn’t know what he believes happened or didn’t happen that night at the flat when he’d left them alone. His passive-aggressive remarks were going fully unnoticed as it was, so he’d finally given up and gone out, fuming. Later, when he’d asked, Sherlock said briefly that Adler had tried to bring the British government to its knees and had failed, and that she was on the run from her former employers. He’d kept her phone. That’s always bothered John, too. Why keep it, unless there was an underlying emotional attachment to it? And now he knows that she’s still alive and out there somewhere, and still texting Sherlock. He hates that. 

The clock now says 4:04am. John turns onto his side, away from the blinking of Mary’s clock, and tries to go back to sleep. The memory of the well won’t leave him alone, though. Eventually he gets up, creeps quietly past Rosie’s room, and goes down to the kitchen to make some warm milk. He heats it in the microwave, then adds a generous tot of Irish cream and stirs it in, carrying it back up to the bedroom. He blows on it and sips, then gets carefully back into bed. He can still feel the water spraying into his face and eyes, his hair dripping coldly down the back of his collar. The horror of realising he couldn’t move his feet, that he was chained to the floor of the well, Sherlock’s voice in his ear the only hope in the world. And Sherlock, distracted and running, alternately talking to the girl on the plane and him. He’d thought he was going to die there, the water up to his chin. He’d just about given in, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, when suddenly there was a light from above, and a rope. He’d looked up and Sherlock’s face had appeared in the mouth of the well. _I’m here, John,_ he’d said. _You’re going to be all right now. We’ll get you unchained. Just hang on._ John had nearly cried with relief. _Don’t leave me,_ he’d pled, even as a wet-suited agent started climbing down the rope to him, his eyes locked on Sherlock’s face. And Sherlock hadn’t moved. _I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here,_ he’d promised, and he had. The agent had greeted John, then dove into the cold, dark water to cut through the chains. Sherlock had pulled them both up, helped by another agent. They were Mycroft’s men, along with the police. Sherlock had pulled him over the edge himself, wrapped him in towels, rubbing him briskly, like a wet dog, then replaced the towels with dry ones and hugged John to himself, stilling his violent shivering with his own body heat. He’d stayed there by his side as the police got the ankle chains sliced open, then exchanged the towels for a long, grey blanket. John had been the one to ask him, as they saw Eurus being led away, _Are you all right?_ Sherlock hadn’t really answered, but John could sense his grief and wondered at that, at the fact that he could still grieve his psychotic, dangerous sister even after having learned what she’d done to his childhood friend. 

They haven’t really talked about any of that. John’s been helping fix up Baker Street, trying his best to tamp down his feeling of wishing he was coming back to live there again, but this is his life now. He made his bed; now he’s got to lie in it. Despite everything else he did that night, Sherlock did not kiss him in the well. He doesn’t feel things that way. John’s always maintained that. Except, perhaps, for Irene Adler. He’s a good friend, a better friend than John’s maybe given him credit for over the years. Then again, there was that entire two-year period wherein Sherlock let him think he was dead, too. He knows he said it, that he forgave it, but obviously there’s still some resentment or he wouldn’t have brought it up that time. Either way, what’s happened has happened. History has played out the way it did and some things just never came about. They’ve never kissed and they never will. 

It’s too much to think about. The milk is nearly gone. John drains the mug and sets it down on the night table. He punches the pillows into a better arrangement and tries to settle his brain long enough to sleep. 

*** 

At least the bones were fake, John thinks in the morning, pouring himself a tall cup of coffee and pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to clear away the fatigue. The bones in the well, that is. When they had Molly check, it quickly became evident that they were realistic creations, likely taken from a laboratory skeleton somewhere, but ultimately not human at all. Redbeard was a dog, in the end, as Sherlock had thought. It doesn’t make it all that much less horrifying, given that Eurus still drowned the poor beast, and it likely didn’t make it all that much easier for Sherlock, either, but it’s something. Having those bones rising up around him like a spectre had only made the well all the more nightmarish, though. The horror had gripped him, leaving him to stutter stupidly, _I don’t know, small?_ in response to Sherlock’s question. With the ghastly grin of the skull emerging from the murky depths, he’d all but panicked completely. 

John shivers. Rosie is making loud noises to herself from the playpen. He checks the time, wishing Harry would hurry up and get here early for once. He can’t complain, really; she and Liz have been pretty great about watching Rosie so much, and they do it for free, too. Oh, Harry will badger him for expense money like nappies, food, the clothes they buy Rosie and so forth, but of course he doesn’t mind that. It’s more the way Harry asks, like he should have thought of it first. Maybe he should have. It’s always there in her eyes, the accusation, though so far she hasn’t come out and said it. Before, when he was drinking, she was actually pretty compassionate about it. She didn’t call him out, not exactly, but she left a business card for an addictions counsellor stuck to the middle of the fridge with a magnet while he was busy talking to Liz. He’d only seen it after they left, and seeing it made him break down on the spot. He’d ripped the card down, angry and humiliated by it, not wanting anyone else to see it. He didn’t have a problem, damn it! He just – had an issue coping with the… he doesn’t know what to call it. It was sort of grief, but not exactly. It was grief and guilt – yes, it was more guilt than anything else – and anger. So much anger. Ella was the one who pointed out that that it was embarrassment, too. Just last week, when he went back to her. They’ve barely even scratched the surface so far, but she proposed they start with the marriage itself, so they did. She asked if he felt like he’d been caught bluffing and been called on it. _What the hell is that supposed to mean?_ he’d snarled in response, and, unruffled, she’d blinked calmly and laid it all out very neatly. _You wanted to believe you could fit into that life, but you can’t. You’re a soldier, John. You live for the action. How did Mary fit into that? How does Rosie fit in now? Either you’ve got to make some big adjustments to your lifestyle or it’s never going to work. But you already know that, don’t you._

He does. He always has, in his gut. John tops up his coffee and goes to sit down in the sitting room, waiting for Harry. In a way, the marriage felt the same as being chained to the bottom of a well. He was drowning in it, unable to move, to get away if he needed. Mary would run off and leave him quite literally holding the baby, forced to stay behind and do the right thing. Sherlock was just as distracted as he was that night at Musgrave Hall, obsessing about tracking Moriarty’s pre-planned movements and never noticing for a second that John was drowning. Everything got so derailed, John thinks bleakly. If only he’d still been on his own when Sherlock came back from his two-year absence. Maybe then they could have gone back to where they were. They’d just been getting to a good place when Moriarty interrupted it all. And Irene before him, but she was just another facet of Moriarty, wasn’t she? And all of it was Eurus in the first place. He shudders, and drains his coffee cup. 

A car turns at the end of the street and slows in front of the house: Harry’s light blue Jetta. Finally. John gets up and goes to where his daughter is banging the keys of a keyboard toy that someone gave her. John has long since removed the batteries to shut the thing up, but Rosie still likes to bash the keys. Perhaps she remembers that they used to make sound. “Okay, enough of that,” John says, bending to scoop her up. She protests immediately, despite the kiss he deposited on her head. “Aunt Harry is here, so let’s get you ready. Are you wet?” A squeeze to her nappy proves inconclusive, so he lifts her and sniffs as she twists and objects vocally to this. The nappy seems fine, though. He gets to the door just before Harry can ring, pulling it open just as she’s raising her hand. “Morning,” he says, trying to make himself smile at her. 

She rolls her eyes. “Ready and waiting, are you?” When he doesn’t answer, she shoulders her way past him. “Got her bag packed?” 

“It’s on the chair.” John steps back to let Liz in, too. “Morning,” he says again, quieter this time, and Liz gives him an understanding look. He’s always got on better with Harry’s girlfriends than he has with Harry herself. A little too well in the case of Clara, though it wasn’t him that started the flirting. Not his fault Clara got a little too handsy when she’d had too much wine. Not that anything had ever happened, but Harry’s never forgiven him. 

He has no interest whatsoever in Liz, as it happens. She’s pretty enough, with long, wheat-coloured hair that almost reaches her waist, but he’s just not interested. Liz takes Rosie from him and coos at her, and Rosie responds with delighted glee, which she rarely seems to be willing to do for John. He hasn’t got the knack of talking to babies, it seems. He’d thought with his own daughter, maybe that would just kick in. He can do it with props and short-lived games – the fork-come-airplane is a classic go-to, for instance – but Eurus rather ruined the plastic flower distraction during nappy changing time. He watches them bundle Rosie up and feels guilty all over again. 

“Where are you off to today?” Liz asks as she and Harry get Rosie’s shoes strapped on. “Got a case on?” 

John shakes his head. “Just finishing up the last of the renovations at Baker Street,” he says. It sounds lame and maybe it is. He thinks of inviting them all over for dinner but can’t muster it somehow. Sherlock and Harry have no patience for one another and John has no stomach to play peacemaker between them. The words die unspoken on his lips. He clears his throat. “So, this evening sometime?” he gets out. It sounds a bit forced. 

“Sure. Just text us when you’re home,” Harry says curtly. “If it’s going to be an overnight, just give us a head’s up.” 

John nods automatically. “Will do. Thanks a lot.” She’s still ticked with him for not having been able to let her know during the whole Eurus debacle, not calling or turning up to collect Rosie when he’d said he would. She hadn’t cared that he’d nearly died several times during it, only that he’d been away for three days without a word. She’d thought he was in a drunken stupor, probably. Not that she’s ever tried to understand him. Oddly, the thing she’s understood the least was Mary, not even bothering to RSVP to the wedding. They met exactly once and John didn’t witness it, as it was at Mary’s bridal shower. Evidently they hadn’t hit it off, though Mary was tactfully vague on the subject. It was one of the only things she was tactful about, come to think of it. On the other hand, when she found out about Mary’s death, it was Harry who’d come forward and offered to take Rosie off his hands for a bit. They’d shared it with Molly, but it was mostly Harry and Liz who’d had her. It was one of the kindest things Harry’s ever done for him, and no matter how judgemental and gruff she can be, John reminds himself constantly not to forget this. 

Harry holds Rosie out to him now and he dutifully gives her a kiss. “See you later,” his sister says, and then they’re off. John watches them go from the front door and wishes he felt something other than guilt. He tells himself to feel grateful that Harry and Liz are so willing to take Rosie almost any time he wants. Liz has even dropped hints about how they’d be willing to keep her for longer stays, too. He’s almost appalled by how tempting that is. The car doors shut and they drive away. John sighs and closes the inside door, feeling temporarily lost. 

On the table, his phone pings with a text alert. It’s Sherlock. He can already feel it. He’s already moving toward the phone as though automatically programmed to respond to Sherlock, and isn’t that the truth? The text is short: 

_Eaten breakfast yet? If not, brunch at that little_  
_place around the corner on Marylebone? 2-for-1_  
_special today!_

Right, their old routine: the 2-for-1 breakfast special at the café around the corner. It must be Friday, then. John texts back: _Sure, be there in about forty. Leaving now._ He sends the message and sees the _Read_ indicator a moment later. For once Sherlock doesn’t nag him to just get a taxi. Instead, he writes back _Ok._ and leaves it at that. John grabs his jacket and wallet and heads out the door. 

*** 

When he walks into the café, Sherlock is already there, a cup of coffee sitting in front of him. He’s on his phone. Texting someone? John’s suspicions are immediately roused, bristling, and it makes his shoulders tight. “Hi,” he says, stiffer than he meant to as he pulls out the chair opposite Sherlock and sits down. 

Sherlock puts his phone down at once, though, and smiles. “Hello,” he says. 

John glances at the clock over the kitchen door. “You been here long? Didn’t mean to keep you waiting.” 

“I just got here – five minutes ago,” Sherlock says swiftly, obviously trying to reassure him. 

“I should have taken a cab.” He’s too apologetic; maybe that’s his inborn jealousy at the thought that Sherlock might be texting someone other than himself. (And of course, he has a specific suspicion there, too.) Then again, maybe he was just checking his email or something. 

“It’s fine,” Sherlock assures him. He signals subtly and their usual server comes over. “Coffee for my friend,” Sherlock says. “We’ll order when you bring it.” 

“Coming right up.” Bobby ambles off toward the kitchen and Sherlock pushes a menu over to him. 

“We don’t have to get the special, of course,” he says, though they always do. 

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course we’ll have the special,” John says, and somehow this makes them both grin. 

“It’s a good special,” Sherlock points out, and John agrees, his shoulders relaxing. “So, who’s got Rosie today?” 

“Harry and Liz again,” John says. “Where are we with the flat?” 

The conversation shifts into the renovations, unhindered by the brief interruption to order (“We’ll have the usual,” Sherlock says, waving Bobby off) and they talk about the series of depositions Mycroft has set up to deal with Eurus’ wake of destruction. “Of course, you could press charges for the well part,” Sherlock says. He hesitates. “It counts as attempted murder, but – if you didn’t, I’d be grateful.” 

He glances at John from beneath his lashes at an angle, uncertain, and it makes John hasten to reassure him. “No, I won’t do that,” he says. The nightmare returns with vivid accuracy, the cold of the water spraying into his face, blinding him, his clothes and shoes waterlogged and heavy. At the tail end of it comes a flash of the other part, of Sherlock’s mouth on his, the inside of his mouth warm in contrast to his cool lips. He shivers involuntarily and clears his throat. “It was what it was,” he says inadequately. “I mean – it was awful, but – she’s very damaged. I understand that.” 

Sherlock lowers his face toward the table, hiding his eyes. “Thank you, John,” he says quietly. 

Their breakfast is served, sparing John the need to try to answer that somehow. They talk about the depositions, what they’ll be discussing on which day. Mycroft’s got it all organised, naturally. “How’s he doing?” John asks at one point. 

Sherlock waves this off. “He’s fine.” 

“Well, as you said, he was quite shaken up there,” John points out. “I’ve never seen him so incapable before.” 

“No,” Sherlock agrees, eating his last potato. He frowns a little as he chews it, thinking. “He isn’t half as tough as he thinks. He’s a force on the bureaucratic side of things, or from a safe distance behind a screen. But he could never do what we do, you and I. You in particular.” 

“And you,” John says, privately pleased by this. “Right, though: the daily muck and blood and up close reality of it. It’s not like ordering a drone strike from the other side of the world.” 

“Precisely.” Sherlock lays down his knife and fork and touches his mouth with his serviette and John has another brief flash of the dream, thinking of Sherlock’s lips. (Redirect thoughts, and quickly.) Sherlock clears his throat and takes a sip of his coffee, then glances across at him. “And you?” he asks. “How are you doing?”

“Me?” John asks with surprise. 

Sherlock shrugs slightly, almost apologetic. “It was – rough. Everything that happened. I know it’s been ten days, but we haven’t really talked about it this way. Are you all right?” 

John finds himself touched by the question. “Yes, I think so,” he says slowly. “Bit – yeah, a bit shaken up, too, I guess. The – well in particular.”

Sherlock’s eyes flick up to his, his gaze as keenly blue and perceptive as ever. “Nightmares?” he asks quietly. 

John looks away and drops his chin in acquiescence. “Yeah.” He thinks it over. “The governor, too. Sometimes.” 

“I see.” 

John glances at him across the table. Sherlock’s eyes are hidden, looking down into his coffee. “And you?” he asks. “How are you coping? That was a lot, with – well, all of it. The whole mindfuck with Victor Trevor and your dog. Thinking it was a dog that was put down, then a dog that your sister killed, then a boy that your sister killed, then a dog again. Finding out you had a sister at all. The bomb at Baker Street. The governor, the Garrideb brothers, Moriarty, that awful thing with Molly, the choice between Mycroft and me…” 

Sherlock is quiet for a long time, obviously thinking. His face is shadowed and a bit grieved, John thinks. “It was a lot,” he says after a little. “I suppose that Victor moving away got conflated with Redbeard’s death, somehow. I was very young. And then there was the fire and we moved and I suppose my mind just decided to rebuild from there and sealed off the way back. Made a clean start. It’s disorienting, though. I’ve always prided myself on my mental abilities, my sharp memory, and to find I managed to forget an entire sibling – ” He stops, shaking his head. Bobby comes by to refill their coffee cups and Sherlock waits until he’s gone. He stirs sugar into his coffee, then says, “The rest of it was rather awful, too. The governor, as you said. And I hated doing that to Molly, though she says she understands that it was to save her life. For all we know about Eurus, it still could have been. As for the bit with you and Mycroft – it would have been very hard to shoot him. Despite the fact that he rather deserved it, given what he’d done.” 

“Right, yeah, but he’s still your brother,” John says. He pauses for a second, not wanting to come off as insecure, but he’s curious. “And – there was no hesitation at all on your part over which of us you would choose?” 

Sherlock glances at him once and snorts. “Between you and Mycroft? Don’t be ridiculous,” he says, and John laughs. 

“I know what he’s like, and that things have always been a bit difficult between the two of you, but he’s still your brother,” he repeats, and Sherlock shrugs again. 

“And you’re my – you,” he says, lightly enough, and signals for the bill. Then, before things can get too odd, he adds, “My blogger. My best friend. Can’t do without you. Sorry.” 

_Don’t be,_ John almost says. _I can hardly get through a day without you, either, if we’re being honest._ But the playful, flirtatious words die on his lips. He can’t say that. Instead, he clears his throat, and feels the chains tugging his feet down all over again, keeping him trapped where he is. 

*** 

Somehow things fall into a pattern. They work on the house. Mycroft comes by to interrupt and drill them on the depositions. John rotates Rosie around during the days, though it’s mostly Harry and Liz who have her. He messes up one night when he and Sherlock drink a little too much at dinner and he falls asleep on the sofa at Baker Street. He wakes in the morning to find a blanket draped over him and Sherlock cooking breakfast in the kitchen, his curls still wet from the shower. John watches him for a moment, privately admiring his long, smoothly-muscled back in its tightly-tailored dress shirt, which is tucked into a pair of trousers equally tightly-tailored in a way that should be illegal. John has to swallow at the sight, his morning wood giving a gentle pang of yearning that has everything to do with all of the rest of the stuff that’s been stuck in John’s chest for six years now. His phone buzzes on the coffee table and he sees that Sherlock plugged it in for him. Thoughtful of him. The screen is showing several texts from Harry. He remembers Rosie and his heart sinks. He was supposed to pick her up last night. 

“Morning,” Sherlock says, glancing his way with a frying pan in hand. “You might want to call your sister. She called awhile ago.” 

John rubs his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “She called you?” 

“I assume because she was unable to reach you,” Sherlock says, serving bacon onto the plates he’s set out on the table. “Come and eat. You can face her wrath later.” 

John stretches and yawns. “I need a shower,” he says. 

“After,” Sherlock says. He nods toward the coffee pot. “Come pour yourself a cup of coffee. Everything’s ready.” 

John gets to his feet and sees that it’s true: Sherlock has cooked them a full breakfast, a basket of thickly-sliced toast on the table, the bacon on their plates still sizzling from the pan, a bowl of satsumas between, and he’s just serving scrambled eggs oozing cheese. He has a sudden impulse to go over and hug Sherlock, pan and all, and has to swallow again. “Okay,” he says, not arguing. “Let me just – loo.” He manages to get himself down the hall before Sherlock can see the state he’s in and runs the cold tap at full blast, slapping his face with cold water and willing his body to calm down enough so that he can relieve himself and get back to the kitchen with his dignity more or less intact. He’s kept this down successfully for years now, damn it. Now is no time to go giving away the game. 

Sherlock smiles at him across the table and doesn’t reprimand him about Rosie or Harry. He never does, never makes him feel guilty with respect to John’s repeated failings as a parent. Or anything else, for that matter. He makes jokes about John’s intelligence, but they’re just that: a joke. John heard clearly what Sherlock truly thinks of him during the speech he made at the wedding. He’ll never forget that. He was so moved he cried, damn it, and wasn’t that awkward! Crying over what his best friend said about him, whereas the rest of the ceremony is little more than a vague blur. He remembers the speech and the murder, and also the first dance. It was so silent in the room, somehow, despite Sherlock’s beautiful playing. He’d felt not only Mary’s eyes on him, expectant and firm, urging him silently not to mess it up, but everyone else’s, too. Including Sherlock’s. He’d felt Sherlock’s eyes but not been able to let himself (make himself?) look at him. That entire time, from Sherlock’s return to the night of the wedding, he’d avoided direct eye contact. There was too much he couldn’t say, and at the time, too much he didn’t want to see, either. 

If someone had asked him, round about the time that Irene Adler had unceremoniously interrupted their rather nice life together, he might have been able to say it then. Maybe not right then, but possibly around the time that Mycroft told him she’d died. If Sherlock had looked up from his microscope, given him a puzzled look and asked why John thought he cared, particularly, when John was the only person he’d ever needed or wanted, John knows how he would have reacted. Probably. It’s hard to imagine it for real, because he can’t _quite_ imagine Sherlock actually saying something like that. Feeling it, maybe. But he never said, so after that first, abortive attempt during their first dinner together, John hadn’t, either. _He doesn’t feel things that way, I don’t think_ , he’d said to Mycroft that day. It’s what he’d always told himself. Still tries to tell himself, except that after Sherlock came back, he was different. He was more human, at least sometimes. Before Dartmouth, John had never even imagined that Sherlock possessed the capability to feel fear. He seemed superhuman in so many ways, but then his weak moments were so very weak. When he’d died, or when John thought he had, he’d thought the reason had been Sherlock public fall from grace, that his despair and humiliation had driven him to take his own life. He’d grieved intensely, not only over the loss of his best friend, but over his own failure to have told Sherlock plainly that he would never leave him, no matter what the papers said, no matter what people thought. That his life had an incredible amount of value to at least one person, and that said person would stand by his side until the end of their days. But he never said it. He couldn’t even bring himself to say it after Sherlock’s death. 

Sherlock interrupts his stream of rather moody thoughts by reaching over to refill his coffee cup. “I thought we could paint the ceiling today, if you’re up for that. Mrs Hudson’s lending us some sheets to cover the furniture and the carpet.” 

_Us_ , John hears, as though he still lives here. He wishes that he did, but it’s too late for that. That ship has sailed. He’s made his bed: he got engaged to Mary, saw it through despite knowing that somewhere not that far below the surface, what he really wanted was Baker Street and Sherlock. But he was angry that Sherlock had done that to him, let him grieve the way he had for so long, as though John hadn’t even mattered enough to bother telling that he was still alive, and so he’d gone through with it and married Mary. And that was a disaster. The entire thing was a mistake from start to finish. And meanwhile, the grief has never entirely healed, just – changed. Deepened into bitterness and resentment that no amount of surface forgiveness can seemingly manage to actually forgive and let go of. He clears his throat. “Sure, yeah. We can paint the ceiling,” he says, and if he sounds gruff, Sherlock doesn’t comment on it. 

*** 

He’s still thinking about it later as he lies in bed, listening to Rosie making sounds to herself over the baby monitor and willing her to go to sleep. If Sherlock had ever just _said_ anything, then maybe he could have said something, too. But Sherlock never has. There’s never been any real reason to think that he wanted something more. In all of their talks, he’s had chances to say it, to bring it up, but he hasn’t. John figures that the ball has been in Sherlock’s court ever since he said that he considered himself married to his work. If he ever wanted to take that statement back, he could have. There have been dozens of opportunities over the years, but he never has, so John’s concluded that he must not actually want anything more. There are times when he’s thought he could feel it, though, or even see it. It’s not enough, though. He’s got to hear it. 

He drifts into sleep. 

_Eurus Holmes’ face is on a giant screen and she’s watching him drown. Water is spraying into his face from above, drowning him like a rat in a storm, his hair slickened onto his scalp and dripping down the back of his neck into his jacket. The water has risen up to his chin now and he’s gasping and spluttering. Where is Sherlock? Where is the rope? Eurus watches him, a sardonic smile touching the corners of her mouth, the dark curtains of her hair making her face angular and severe._

_A light comes on somewhere above him and he looks up, squinting into the water, and sees the haloed silhouette of Sherlock’s head. “John!” Sherlock shouts. “I’m here! You’re going to be all right! They’re shutting off the water!”_

_John feels the relief sweep over him. “Sherlock!” It’s all he can say, somehow, the name coming out desperate and afraid._

_Sherlock must have understood somehow, because the next thing John knows, Sherlock is climbing over the lip of the well and down the rope, coat, shoes, and all. This time, the instant he reaches John, he pulls him close, still holding the rope. With his free arm, he gets his coat around John, warmth pooling between their torsos, and then his mouth is on John’s, strong and unhesitating. John clings to him with all four limbs and kisses back with no less desperation than before, the chains keeping him from getting as close as he needs. The water is still raining down around them but none of that matters now. The only thing that matters is Sherlock and that Sherlock never stop kissing him. John presses unabashedly closer, needing, pulling Sherlock deeper into the water with him, and Sherlock makes a sound of affirmation into his mouth, his hand dropping to John’s arse and gripping it. John groans into his mouth, and –_

His eyes fly open, breath heaving, disoriented in the dark of the bedroom. Rosie is crying over the baby monitor and his hand is down his shorts, jerking himself roughly. He’s too far gone to stop now, so he focuses on getting himself off, trying to ignore the sound of his daughter’s wails. He calls back the feeling from the dream of Sherlock’s body, hard against his, and that does it – it only takes another ten strokes or so and then he’s coming, making a mess of his shorts. 

He sags back onto the sheets, still breathing hard, gives himself a moment or two to recover, then rolls out of bed and strips off his shorts. He leaves them on the floor near the laundry hamper and goes to the dresser to find a new pair. Pulling these on, he wanders into the corridor rubbing tiredly at his eyes. “I’m coming, Rosie,” he calls, then pushes her door open. 

She’s standing up in her cot, tears tracking over her cheeks, and he feels a pang at having made her wait, not that he’d had much say in the matter. “What’s the matter, then?” he asks, picking her up and doing his best not to bash her feet on the rail of the cot. The wails subside as soon as he picks her up. He bounces her a little and she buries her hot face in his neck and snuffles wetly, which is a bit gross, but he’s almost used to it at this point. “You’re all right,” he tells her, keeping his voice gentle despite mourning the loss of his sleep. He takes her and sits down in the rocking chair, stroking her hair. “Did you have a bad dream or something?” he asks. He knows she won’t answer, but the question is strictly rhetorical. “Or what’s all this about, then, hmm?” he adds, willing her to go back to sleep. He rocks the chair and thinks back to a hundred years ago, or so it feels, when he and Mary had an argument over him saying that babies’ bedrooms are creepy in the dark. They are. She hadn’t liked him saying it, though. 

John sighs, his breath ruffling Rosie’s hair. Rosamund. That probably wasn’t her real name, either. He never would have got to the bottom of that pile, he thinks. It was just one lie layered onto another. He wonders if Mary even still remembered her real name after all that time. Perhaps after awhile, one would forget. He doesn’t know and doesn’t care to. He got that some of the lies were things she wanted to believe were true, even if they weren’t. He believes that she loved him, or at least that she thought she did – in her version of love, which isn’t his, not by a long shot. His ideas about love have a lot to do with honesty and being able to reveal and give yourself fully to someone else, and he never once got that from Mary, neither her honesty nor her vulnerability, nor herself in its entirety. It occurs to him that he never gave her his honesty or vulnerability, either. And sacrifice, that’s a big part of it, too. The idea that you would do anything for the person you love. But he’d always known, hadn’t he, that it was a bit of play-acting on his part, too. Not that he’d ever quite acknowledged it as such. He’d wanted to believe it, too. Maybe neither of them ever loved the other, not really. Mary was never willing to have him know the truth about who she was. Hell, he still doesn’t even know the half of it. That much, he believes emphatically. She was willing to put him through the grief of losing Sherlock all over again, at her own hand, without batting an eyelash. Keeping her secrets meant more to her than any amount of pain it caused him. She would have killed Sherlock and never said a word, never admitted it to the end of their days. So much for sacrifice. 

And as for him, it was always a cover for the thing he really wanted and knew he could never have. “So what does that make you, then?” he asks the child in his arms, the question both rhetorical and sad. She’s gone heavy, mostly sleeping now, so he gets carefully to his feet and effects a transfer back into the cot. Probably better that that question get left unanswered, anyway, not that he hasn’t thought it before. She never should have been born, really. That’s the sad truth of it. He loves her, but what is she? The product of a marriage based on a mountain of lies, of two people who, at the end of the day, still didn’t even know each other’s first names. She knew his but he never knew hers. All he knows it that it sure as hell wasn’t Rosamund. She never would have used that for a joint operation like that, with the kind of work they were doing. How could he have been so foolish as to have made a child with her? John shakes his head, looking down at his sleeping daughter, and feels the same guilt he always feels for thinking all of this. He loves her. That much isn’t in doubt. He’s a rotten father, but he still loves her. 

He watches her for a bit, then goes back into the bedroom. ‘The’ bedroom, he calls it; it’s never felt like his own. It’s just a place where he sleeps. It’s got nothing to do with him. He stops short in the doorway. The window is open very slightly, the late winter wind moving the curtains. Streetlight is streaking in as the curtains move, falling onto the pillows, and there’s a faint trace of perfume in the air: something sensual and slightly exotic. His eye spots something on the other pillow. A card, maybe. John moves toward it as if in a dream, feeling strangely compelled, needing to know what it is. 

It’s a business card, white and crisp and rectangular, with a single letter in the middle: _M_. John shivers despite himself. (He’s not afraid, damn it.) He picks it up and examines it, then turns it around. No: not M: it’s a W. He feels his jaw clench and turns the card over. There’s a lip print from very dark red lipstick, made after the short note was written. It says, _Still know where to look?_

John drops the card as though it’s burnt his fingers. He looks around the bedroom suspiciously. “Hello?” he calls, though not loudly enough to wake Rosie again. Damn it! He’d know if someone were in the house, wouldn’t he? He goes to the open window and looks out, but of course there’s nothing to see. Gritting his jaw, John closes the window and locks it, pulling the curtains closed. Irene Bloody Adler. Perfect. Just perfect. Exactly what he needs in his life after everything else that’s happened. Oh, he knows very well that he urged Sherlock to text her, see her, practically taunted him into spending dirty weekends with her. He doesn’t know why he said all that just then. Well – all right: he was feeling miserable with his own guilt over Mary and Sherlock both, and somehow he said all the wrong things to the wrong person. He knows very well that _Sherlock_ is the person who sees the best in him, constantly overlooking his shortcomings, firmly believing him to be a far better person than he actually is. Mary never gave him any sort of benefit of the doubt; she barely acknowledged the things he actually _is_ good at. Somehow it all seemed like the right thing to say at the time, yet it was so mixed up. If anything, it put even more space between them. Why couldn’t he have just said how bloody worried he was about Sherlock’s relapse into serious, life-threatening drug abuse? His own stubbornness and guilt and stupidity had nearly driven Sherlock into taking his own life through either overdose or the small, ugly hands of Culverton Smith, all because Mary bloody well goaded him into it through one of her many posthumous video messages. _Go to hell, Sherlock,_ she’d said, just a hint of snarl in her tone and around her nose, betraying her true feelings. And Sherlock had done exactly that, thinking that John meant everything he’d said in that awful letter he never should have written. He’d believed that their friendship was done for and that all he could do at that point was at least save John from himself. So he’d thrown himself at death yet again, without a second thought for his own life. And in return, John never even managed to apologise properly. Instead he’d sidestepped it with his tangent about Mary and the text affair or whatever that was, and somewhere in there in his acute jealousy over hearing Irene Adler’s text message alert, he’d gone and encouraged it, of all things! 

And now she’s back. Terrific. That’s just bloody fantastic. _Still know where to look?_ The question taunts him. The last time she turned up, it was in Sherlock’s bed: the very last place he wants to see her. John clenches his teeth together and growls in frustration into his pillow. And not only that, she felt the need to swing by this flat, out in the sticks, just to torment him over it. She’s back and she’s here for Sherlock, and she wants him to know it. Because she _knows_. As she would say herself, she’s the sort of woman who gets paid to know what men want. She’s a prostitute-come-extortionist and very good at what she does. She knows what he’s always wanted and could never have. 

He wants to scream. But it’s the middle of the night and he’s got a sleeping child in the next room. Besides, he’s stuck out in the middle of nowhere. By now, Irene is probably at Baker Street – in the dark of the night, when anything can happen. Will Sherlock greet her, confused but pleased to see her? Will he welcome her as someone who actively wants to be with him, as opposed to his issue-ridden best friend who seemingly can’t even be relied upon to not actively wish him dead from one day to the next? Maybe he’ll find it a nice change after all the crap John’s put him through. He can’t scream, but something locked deep within his being is screaming nonetheless. 

*** 

It the morning it all feels like something he dreamed, but the card is still there as proof. Irene Adler was there. He isn’t crazy. John makes coffee, scowling, and wonders if she somehow did something to wake Rosie in the night just to get him out of the bedroom. Would she do that to a baby? Considering that she was willing to sell out the entire nation without a second thought, anything seems possible, really. He thinks of her handwritten message on the card again. _Still know where to look?_ She could be referring to more than one thing, John thinks, pouring himself a cup of coffee when the brewing cycle finishes and taking it to the table. The first time she said it, she was referring to the fact that John was completely aware of her nudity and trying his damnedest not to look at her breasts. If that’s what she means, is this a stab at his heterosexuality? A dig about his feelings for Sherlock, which she’s always brought up and pressed him about mercilessly? Or is it a reference to the fact that the last time she turned up, it was in Sherlock’s bed? Is this a direct announcement that she’s back and to be found in Sherlock’s bedroom – just to let him know that she can do that if she wants to, that Sherlock won’t turn her away? John rubs at his right temple with two fingers and sips, wondering with a touch of nausea whether Irene is at Baker Street even now, if Sherlock is making her breakfast, both of them wearing his dressing gowns. His scowl deepens. 

Ella’s words about being proactive about his own life come back to him all of a sudden. This is exactly the sort of thing she would mention: a situation that he isn’t happy with but somehow can’t seem to bring himself to do anything about. Fine, then! John snatches at his phone and opens the text messages, touching Sherlock’s name with his finger. He thinks for a moment, then writes, _We still on for renos today? Harry’s taking Rosie so I’m free as a bird!_ He re-reads this, then sends it. If Sherlock blows him off, he’ll know for sure that Irene is there. 

To his pleased surprise, however, Sherlock texts back promptly. _Not up yet, but yes, let’s do that. Had breakfast yet?_

‘Not up yet’ _could_ mean in bed with Irene, but the question about breakfast sounds like probably not. Encouraged, John types back at once: _No, just coffee. Feel like waffles? That place on Devonshire?_

Sherlock types back right away. _Perfect. In about an hour?_

 _See you there,_ John types, and puts the phone down, feeling triumphant. He checks the time. It’s not quite nine yet, but he always was an early riser. Some habits don’t die, he’s discovered. Harry should be here by half-past at the latest. There’s no time to waste, then. He drains his coffee and sets the cup down, then goes upstairs to rouse his child. 

*** 

Sherlock seems no different than usual at breakfast. John debates whether or not to even mention the card, the trace of perfume in the air, the open window. The perfume had made him think of Mary, but it wasn’t her scent. Claire-de-la-lune is cloyingly sweet and floral; this scent was heavier, sultry with spice. Sandalwood, perhaps? Bergamot? He doesn’t know a thing about perfumes. Sherlock does, he knows, but he doesn’t want to bring it up. Instead, they eat and chat about the renovations and John watches him subtly for any sign that the Woman might have re-inserted herself into his life somehow. 

Breakfast is good. They both order Norwegian waffles, Sherlock’s with raspberry sauce, fresh raspberries, and whipped cream, John’s with sliced banana and nutella, and they order a large side of bacon and share it between them. Washing it all down with endless cups of coffee, they discuss the house and what they’re going to work on today. John manages to almost forget about the cobweb threat of Irene, which feels like a dream now in spite of the card she left behind, and he reminds himself with a fierce throb of nostalgia for the old days just how good it is to be doing anything with Sherlock again. Just the two of them, no Mary, no Rosie, no one but them. Mrs Hudson will likely pop in once or twice to make them tea, but otherwise she’ll steer clear of the noise and clutter. They eat and chat and lay plans for the day. 

“Are we heading straight back there, then?” Sherlock asks, watching him over the rim of his coffee cup. 

It doesn’t occur to John that the question may be slightly calculated. Not just then, at any rate. “Yeah, why not?” he responds, digging out his wallet as the server approaches their table. “I assumed we were.” 

Sherlock smiles a little and doesn’t respond to this. When the server reaches them, he hands her his card and waves John’s wallet away with a flick of his wrist. “Please,” he says, not looking at John, so John puts it away without arguing. 

“Thanks,” he says gruffly. “You didn’t have to.” 

“I wanted to. It’s the least I can do for all the help you’re giving me with the house,” Sherlock says lightly, though that doesn’t explain away all the other times he’s paid for both of them. 

John smiles and looks down into his coffee. “I like it. Gives me something to do.” 

Sherlock refrains from pointing out that John could be resuming his actual job or looking after his infant daughter, and stands to pull on his coat. “In that case,” he says, and John puts on his jacket and they walk the ten minutes back to Baker Street. 

Upstairs, Sherlock pushes the door open with a touch of caution that John doesn’t quite understand, then walks in and stops. John follows him inside and feels immediately as though someone has upended a bucket of cold water over his head. 

Irene Adler is sitting coiled in his chair like a cat, clad only in a transparent green dressing gown that leaves very little to the imagination. Her wide, blue eyes are blinking innocently at Sherlock, but she glances at John, the corners of her mouth smirking at him. 

“She arrived last night,” Sherlock says, not looking at John. His eyes are fixed on the Woman. “I didn’t quite know how to tell you.” 

*** 

John feels bile rise in his throat and swallows it down. “What are you doing here?” he asks bluntly, unable to make himself say something polite. 

Irene’s eyes gaze bluely at him, glittering with amusement. “I did tell you to warn him,” she says, speaking to Sherlock rather than him, and neither this nor her choice of words improves John’s mood any. 

“Sherlock,” he says, not moving or taking his eyes off Irene, feeling his jaw clenching. 

Sherlock sighs. “She arrived in the middle of the night and said she needed somewhere to stay. I could hardly refuse at that hour.” 

Irene turns her mocking eyes on John now. “Don’t act so surprised,” she drawls. “It’s not as though you didn’t know. I know you saw my card.” 

“Card?” Sherlock repeats, looking at John, too. “What card?” 

John feels himself grow even more defensive. “This,” he says, taking it out of his jacket pocket and passing it to Sherlock. “She left it on the other pillow while I was up with Rosie last night.” 

He feels Sherlock’s hesitation as much as he hears it. “You didn’t mention that, either,” Sherlock says, a bit stiff. He looks down at the card. “ _Still know where to look_? Is this a thinly-veiled reference to your breasts, or the fact that you turned up in my bed again?” 

Irene is all smiles. “This time with you in it,” she says cheekily, and John wants to vomit. 

“So how long are you staying this time?” he asks, his tone harsher than it should be. “Long enough to ensnare us into helping you sell out the nation again?” 

“Nonsense, I’m just lying low for a few days,” Irene says breezily. She glances around. “Though if I’d known it was going to be such a mess…” Her nose wrinkles delicately. 

“You could always go to a hotel,” John says, and it’s still too blunt. 

“John,” Sherlock says, not reproaching him, exactly, but there’s a restraint there nonetheless and John remembers that he doesn’t actually live here anymore and has no say over who gets to stay and who doesn’t. He gave that up when he left. 

He glances at Sherlock. “Sorry,” he mutters, still feeling sick. “I’ll – get started on the grouting.” He brushes past Sherlock and makes for the kitchen. He feels like an idiot for making such a big deal about it, especially after the way he ribbed Sherlock about having clandestine rendezvous with Irene. He’s being completely inconsistent and giving away the game, like the idiot he is. 

Sherlock and Irene follow him into the kitchen a moment later. “Do I have to make my own cup of tea?” Irene is asking, her voice flirtatious. 

John grits his teeth harder, his back to them, and attempts to focus on opening a tube of grout to apply between the tiles they just glued on yesterday above the sink. If Sherlock wants to spend time with Irene, maybe he should offer to leave them on their own. It’s odd that Sherlock came out for breakfast and left Irene in the flat. Odd that they didn’t eat together, on their own. That’s something, at least. 

“No, I can make you a cup, if you like,” Sherlock says slowly. “But we’re going to be working all day. There will be noise and dirt and dust. It’s not the best time. I would suggest you find somewhere else to spend the day.” 

John feels a private streak of vindictive triumph. 

“Oh,” Irene says. “All right, then. In that case, I’ll just get dressed and be out of your hair.” 

She goes and John twists around to see which way she goes. Her footsteps go in the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom and his gut twists horribly. 

Sherlock comes to stand near him at the worktop where John is leaning over the sink to reach the tiles. He picks up the other tube of grout and uncaps it, starting in at the opposite side. “I slept on the sofa, for the record,” he says quietly. 

John can’t bring himself to look at Sherlock just now, though hearing this sends a jolt of relief through him. “You did?” he asks. “Why?” 

Sherlock draws a thin, straight line of grout between two tiles and says, “As you may recall, there is a gaping hole in the floor of your old room. I could hardly put her up there. Besides which… she was nude and I didn’t want to kick her out of my bed like that. I was half-asleep, so I just got up and went to the sitting room.” 

His voice is a bit stiff and John realises that Sherlock feels as awkward talking about this as he does. “I see,” he says. He wants to ask why Sherlock didn’t stay in bed with her, and why he didn’t mention this over breakfast, why he seems defensive about the whole thing now, but he doesn’t want to do it with Irene just a stone’s throw away down the corridor. 

Sherlock glances at him, possibly suppressing some of the same questions, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead they both concentrate on the tiling until Irene reappears in the kitchen doorway. 

Her hair is down, not quite as long as it was the last time she was here. Her lipstick is very red and she’s wearing a black wool coat that belts around her slim waist, a high fur collar almost blending with her dark hair. There’s a hint of her perfume as she moves, sensual and sweet at the same time, and John hates admitting to himself that she’s a beautiful woman, indeed. “You boys have fun,” she says with amusement, as though they’re playing house or something. “I’ll be back in time for dinner.” This last is directed at Sherlock alone, her eyebrows raised seductively. 

Sherlock gives a slightly tight-lipped smile. “Okay,” he says, and John wants to scream. Is he to understand that these plans don’t involve him, or what’s the deal? Besides, when has Sherlock ever agreed to have dinner with Irene before, unless there’s a great deal that Sherlock hasn’t told him about? 

Irene’s eyes linger on John for a moment, the triumph clear on her face. “Bye,” she says, and goes. 

John listens to the steps of her high-heeled boots descend the stairs. “Where’s she going to go?” he asks. 

Sherlock shrugs. “I’ve no idea. Not my problem. Pass me the scraper, would you?” 

John hands over the tool. “Sorry if I was out of line there,” he says, his shoulders and voice both tight. “I know it’s not up to me who you decide to have stay.” 

“It’s not as if I invited her,” Sherlock says with no discernible emotion. “She just showed up.” 

“In your bed. Naked.” John looks at him for confirmation, and Sherlock nods. 

“Precisely. It was a surprise, to say the least.” Sherlock climbs onto the worktop to reach the higher tiles. From there, he looks down and sideways at John. “I know you don’t like her. I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure how to bring it up at breakfast.” 

It’s John’s turn to shrug, feeling at a loss for words. “I didn’t know that you did. Like her, I mean. Except that you text her sometimes, you said,” he says. This sounds a touch resentful and he knows it, so he changes directions. “I didn’t know how to bring it up, either.” He does another line of grout, then adds, “You could have put me off for today, if you wanted to spend time with her. We didn’t have to do breakfast. Or this.” 

“Nonsense. We’re in the middle of fixing up the kitchen,” Sherlock says, frowning, though he’s not looking at John. “We already had plans.” 

“What about dinner, then?” John asks, feeling jealous all over again. “What are you two planning for that?” 

“Who said anything about having plans for dinner?” Sherlock is brusque and the set of his shoulders is as firm as John’s own. 

“Irene did,” he says, aware that he sounds petulant. He can’t stop himself. 

“She said she would be back in time for dinner,” Sherlock states. “I have no idea where or with whom she intends to dine.” 

John snorts. “If you don’t know her intentions on _that_ score by now, I’d say you’re being deliberately obtuse, mate.” The _mate_ still doesn’t work, somehow. It was sarcastic, anyway. 

Sherlock makes a sound of exasperation and says, the words coming out sounding forced, “Very well, then: what would you like to do for dinner tonight?” 

“Me?” John looks at him. “Or all three of us, or – what, exactly?” 

Sherlock gives him an impatient look. “I understood that you and I had standing plans for this entire time frame, generally speaking, that involved working on the house together. Every other night thus far we’ve eaten dinner together, so I rather presumed that tonight would function along the same lines. Problem?” 

He’s got even more defensive now and John wants to back down a step. “No,” he says. “I just thought – ”

“Well, stop thinking,” Sherlock says shortly. “It’s never been your strong suit, anyway.” 

This stings a little, but John has the wit to glean that he’s pissed Sherlock off by pressing the whole thing. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Look – I just mean that you don’t have to. Eat dinner with me, I mean. Do what you want.” 

Sherlock adjusts his position, then says through what sounds like a tensed jaw, “I thought I was.” 

“Okay,” John says quickly. “So – dinner tonight, then. Where do you feel like going?” 

Sherlock is silent for several moments, concentrating on the tile work, then finally says, “What about sushi?” 

John risks a look in his direction. “Sushi would be great. Yasaka? They have those fantastic shrimp gyoza…”

Sherlock’s lips are pursed but he nods, just a single dip of his chin. “Yasaka, then,” he says curtly, and after that, they fall into a silence that isn’t entirely companionable. 

*** 

He doesn’t even know whether Sherlock says or does something, but when they decide to call it a day, Irene is nowhere in sight. She didn’t appear all day, not interrupting their work, nor turning up as John made grilled cheese sandwiches to go with the pot of vegetable soup Sherlock made for their lunch break. It’s possible that Sherlock texted her while he was on the phone with Harry, checking in about Rosie, but he didn’t notice. Of course, Sherlock could have found five thousand ways to talk to Irene without him noticing, but he didn’t hear her text alert noise at any point, either. And he can admit to himself, at least, that he’s been actively listening for it. Either way, as they stood back, admiring the finished wall above the sink, congratulating themselves on their work, Sherlock abruptly announced that he was starving, so John washed his hands and changed from the grubby old t-shirt he was wearing for the drilling and all that in the afternoon and back into his shirt. That done, he pulled on his jacket and they walked the twenty minutes to Yasaka. 

They have a few preferred sushi restaurants, but Yasaka is indubitably the nicest. It’s the most expensive, with the longest menu and the fanciest décor, and John always thinks of it as a place to go for a special occasion. He’s not sure why he suggested it for just another regular day of renos, but Sherlock agreed readily. No – scratch that, of _course_ he knows why. Stupid. It’s ridiculous, but it’s as though he’s trying to step it up a notch to compete with Irene. Which is impossible to do because he doesn’t even know what he’s up against. Or what he’s competing for, exactly. He feels intensely proprietary of Baker Street and Sherlock both. He doesn’t want her there, staking a claim ahead of his own. 

They arrive at the restaurant and are seated in one of the sheltered, private booths that they’ve always liked, pleased to get one without having made a reservation. (“The benefit of coming on a Wednesday, I suppose,” Sherlock points out.) They sit down and open the menus, and Sherlock adds, “Thanks again for all of your help. Not just today, but in general, with the flat. It would have been an enormous undertaking on my own. Not to mention, terribly boring.” 

“It’s still a bit tedious,” John says. “But I’m glad to help. Really.” 

Sherlock glances at him over his menu, then smiles slightly. “It’s far less tedious doing it with you.”

John smiles back, feeling his heart thump a little, stupidly. “Well, I’m glad,” he says again. “It still feels like my home, in a way.”

“I’ve never thought otherwise. It will always be yours, or as much yours as you want it to be,” Sherlock says, his eyes on his menu now. 

John sneaks another look at him, not quite sure what to say to this. He sort of wants to say that he wishes he still lived there, but where would he put Rosie? He has no desire to share a room with a baby and there’s just no other space at Baker Street. He briefly thinks of Sherlock moving into Mary’s flat and has to stifle the hysterical laughter that threatens to burst out at the very notion – Sherlock, in Mary’s dimly-lit, beige, boringly-tasteful flat. No. The notion is ridiculous. Whereas him coming home to Baker Street would just seem – obvious. But not now. Not with Irene Adler staying. He sort of wants to bring that up again, too, but is loath to go spoiling dinner. No. He decides to leave it. “Are we sharing or ordering separately?” he asks instead. 

Sherlock frowns at him over his menu now. “Don’t we always share, when it’s sushi?” 

“Yes, but we don’t have to, if you don’t want,” John says, reassuring him hastily. “I’d rather share. What’s your preference?” 

“We always share,” Sherlock says again, still frowning. “Why would my preference have changed?” 

John hides his smile. “Never mind. It wouldn’t. So what should we have? Did you see the new salmon rolls on page three here, with the cream cheese and watercress?” 

“Yes, I did, actually,” Sherlock says. “Good, I wanted to try that, too. The shrimp gyoza, of course. That goes without saying. Avocado roll?” 

“Please.” John lists off a few other thoughts and they go through their usual routine of choosing. They have very similar tastes when it comes to sushi, at least, which always makes it easier to share because otherwise they’d just end up sharing everything, anyway. They order and sit back, and now things feel easy between them again, relaxed and comfortable and warm. The waiter brings a bottle of the house white and fills their glasses. They toast to Baker Street and its restoration, and even though everything is going so well, John feels his mouth fill with the unspoken things he’ll never be able to say and wants to kick himself. Instead, he swallows them all back down and they have dinner without disruption. 

*** 

His mood is thoroughly dampened upon returning to Baker Street and finding Irene in the sitting room, naked save for the blanket from the back of John’s chair that she’s tucked around herself. She doesn’t say anything about dinner or her lack of inclusion in it, but fastens the blanket like a sarong and comes over to stroke Sherlock’s cheek before kissing it, leave a red lip print on his face. “Come and show me where you keep the spare linens,” she says, her voice warm and inviting. She ignores John altogether and takes Sherlock by the wrist, tugging him down the corridor toward Sherlock’s bedroom. 

Sherlock’s fingers are dangling loosely, John notes, though it doesn’t help the turmoil in his gut. Sherlock looks back over his shoulder at him. “Tomorrow?” he says. 

John nods. “Of course,” he says stupidly. He should go. They’re disappearing into Sherlock’s room together, the door still open, but he doesn’t want to wait around to find out what’s going to happen next. He makes for the stairs, never having taken his jacket or shoes off in the first place, and tries to un-see the lip print on Sherlock’s cheek as he walks heavily toward Marylebone to hail a taxi. Forget it, he tells himself fiercely, but it’s no use. He’s unable to not think about it, even though this part of the day is over. The good part. Now he’s got to go back to the suburbs, to his daughter, to his responsibilities. He moved out and relinquished his claim to either Baker Street or Sherlock. Irene is there right now. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, as they say. John gets into the cab that slows at the kerb for him and stares moodily out the window without seeing a thing over the long drive home. 

*** 

_The water is up to his chin and he’s spluttering, but then the light comes on and Sherlock’s silhouette appears against it. He seems to be saying something, but John can’t hear him over the rushing of the water. Then, to his horror, the Woman’s silhouette joins Sherlock’s. They seem to converse for a moment or two, then she leans over and kisses Sherlock. She takes his hand from the edge of the well and leads him away. John wants to swim up and go after Sherlock, angrily yank him back, but the chains around his ankles are holding him down to the bottom of the well. The cold water rises and closes over his face. He can’t breathe._

“Sherlock!!” John wakes, shouting, sitting up in bed, his heart pounding. The dream is still all around him, holding him in its grips and for a moment he can’t get out of it. It was just a dream, he tells himself, but angry, frustrated tears pour down his cheeks and for a minute or two, he sits there sobbing, fists clenched in his blankets. On the baby monitor video, Rosie is fussing and stirring, but he’s too lost in his own despair to be bothered with anyone but himself for the time being. 

Sherlock would never have done that, he tells himself a bit later, trying to calm down and wiping his face on the edge of the blanket. Sherlock never would have left him to die. At the time, John had thought he was too distracted by Eurus and the girl on the plane and had prioritised them above him, above saving him, but later he realised that Sherlock had been doing everything in his power to save him yet again. Sherlock has been saving him since the day they met. 

John gets up and goes to the loo, pouring himself a glass of cold water and taking in his haggard appearance staring blearily back at him from the mirror. It’s true, he silently confirms to the bags under his eyes in his reflection. Sherlock has left him behind on occasion, but never left him when it really counted. Those two years that John thought he was dead – he may never truly forgive that, not that he meant to bring it up the way he did that day in the hospital. (He hates thinking of that day and avoids it at all costs.) Those two years are something he’ll never understand and until he does, he knows he can’t forgive it or let it go entirely. Even so, Sherlock has saved him over and over again. He even tried to save John’s disastrous marriage for him, not that anything could have saved it. There were just too many lies and not enough real substance to hold it together. Either way, the one thing he knows for certain – now, at least – is that Sherlock never would have left him there in the well to die, and he sure as hell wouldn’t have let himself get distracted by Irene Adler, of all people. 

Even if she is there at the flat right now. John refills his glass and drains it abruptly, then creeps down the corridor to listen at Rosie’s door to see whether or not she’s still awake. He doesn’t hear anything and his shoulders sag with relief. He’s almost afraid to go back to sleep, himself. The well dreams are getting even more intense, and this one didn’t come with the side benefit of turning into a sex dream, either. 

Are Sherlock and Irene sleeping together, then? Back in bed, John stares moodily at the ceiling and wishes he could tell. His gut is proving useless on this one. Sometimes he thinks they must be; other days he’s certain that the very notion is entirely preposterous. It’s not as though Sherlock is remotely affectionate toward her, but – maybe that’s just his style. John’s seen him be spontaneously affectionate with Mrs Hudson on several occasions, but it’s definitely an exception. Perhaps he’s just extremely private when it comes to love. Or sex, or whatever he might have going on with Irene. Then again, he told John back during the autumn when John was staying at Baker Street after Mary shot him that he’d never been with anyone. They’d been drinking brandy that night – finished the bottle, in fact, and the confession just sort of came out in the course of a long evening’s amiable conversation. John hadn’t made a big deal of it, just looked over at Sherlock for a long while, asked a question or two, then let it go. Sherlock said it had never seemed worth pursuing. He’d trailed off a little, making John wonder if there was something else he wasn’t saying, so he’d waited, but Sherlock never elaborated and eventually the subject changed on its own. Or Sherlock had steered it away, maybe. 

But since then, John’s gone and encouraged this, hasn’t he? Ragged him about it, even, _Nights of passion in High Wycombe?_ he’d said, almost bullying him over it, then told him outright to go out and pursue it! What was he thinking?! Maybe Sherlock took his advice and did exactly that. Maybe he didn’t, and Irene turning up now is purely coincidental. Put that way, it doesn’t seem particularly likely, though. Maybe they were already together and John’s advice had made Sherlock privately laugh into his sleeve at him. Perhaps he and Irene have joked about it, about him not knowing. Or maybe there’s nothing to it whatsoever. 

John scowls at the ceiling and turns onto his side with a huff. He can’t compete with Irene Adler, and maybe, given the way he’s treated Sherlock lately, maybe he shouldn’t even try. Maybe Sherlock would be better off with Irene than with him. But what could he possibly do now, anyway? He’s here; she’s there. In Sherlock’s bedroom. God only knows where Sherlock himself is. Regardless, John chose to stay here, didn’t he. Not that Sherlock has ever asked him to come back, but John feels that there’s a general understanding that Baker Street would be open to him if he announced his intention to move back in at any point. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking on his part. Maybe Sherlock is relieved to have his nights free, at least, unshackled by any prior plans with his former roommate and sometimes friend that involve mostly renovations, hardly the stuff of dreams. And yet, John thinks, staring at the opposite wall now rather than the ceiling, there’s still something special about the two of them doing anything together. Or so he’s thought, at least. Perhaps it’s only special for him. How the hell should he know? 

He watches the wrong time blink on Mary’s clock for another hour before sleep finally retakes him, eventually succumbing like a prisoner of war too tired to keep evading recapture. 

*** 

In the morning, nothing seems any clearer. John wakes up feeling as restless and uneasy about the entire business as he did in the middle of the night. The horror of the dream has faded, at least, the feeling of drowning not at the forefront of his mind any more. He has no idea when Sherlock expects him. It’s not as though they had a chance to discuss it, what with Irene waiting to drag Sherlock off into the depths of his bedroom the instant they got back last night. 

Rosie is awake and tetchy this morning, and for a moment John can’t remember what he’d planned to do with her today. He checks the calendar on his phone and sees that he wrote: _R – maybe Molly?_ His heart sinks. He didn’t get anything sure fixed, then. What’s Harry doing today? He struggles to remember, frowning, then at last it comes to him. She’s got a work thing out of the city. Can’t Liz take her, then, he wonders. He hesitates for a moment, knowing that they already think he’s a deadbeat father, but he can hardly take Rosie to Baker Street while they’re still working. Although maybe Mrs Hudson could take her if Liz can’t. He presses down on the button for Liz’s name. 

She answers after three rings, sounding sleepy. “John?” 

He clears his throat. “Er, yeah, hi. It’s me. Sorry, did I wake you?” 

“It’s all right.” Liz already sounds more awake. “Everything all right?” 

“Yeah, fine,” John says. He hesitates again, feeling awkward. “Look, er, I remembered that Harry’s got that thing out in Aylesbury today, but I was just wondering if there was any chance you might be free to take Rosie again?” 

There’s a small pause on the other end. “I’m sorry, John,” Liz says, sounding truly apologetic. “I’ve booked myself for a dozen things today, since I thought it was a free day. I’m sorry! You know I’d love to, but I’ve got just dozens of errands and appointments and that. Is there anyone else you could ask? We could take her tonight if you really need, only we were planning to go to a dinner party with some of my friends…” 

Liz is an artist and most of her friends are hipster-types roosting in lofts here and there, probably eating a lot of vegan food and drinking out of jars. John decides not to comment on this. “No, of course,” he says. “Go to your party. It’s fine. I’ll – I’ll work something out.” 

“Yeah? Well, call us if you’re stuck,” Liz says. “Good luck!” 

“Right, yeah. Thanks.” John hangs up and scowls. His phone buzzes in his hand with a text. He looks down at it. 

It’s Sherlock. _Still on for today?_

John feels his mouth purse. Is Sherlock asking because he’s hoping to get out of it? He texts back: _I thought so, unless you’ve got other plans._

There’s a decided pause on the other end, then Sherlock writes, _No other plans. Come over whenever you like._

John almost asks if he should text first, but thinks better of it. Instead he writes, _Ok. I’ll just eat breakfast and then come right over. Might have to bring Rosie with._

Sherlock responds immediately: _Not a problem. Come when you can._

John makes breakfast, feeling slightly better about things, and feeds Rosie. She can almost feed herself, but it’s faster and cleaner when he does it for her. He drinks a cup of coffee, then bundles Rosie into her winter suit and shoes and puts her into her buggy to walk the small distance to the main road where he can get the bus. On said bus, a group of middle-aged women smile indulgently at him and he notices one in particular looking with interest at his ring-less left hand. He stopped wearing it about a week ago, thinking that it hardly made sense anymore. (Of course it had everything to do with Irene. He knows that.) His hand feels slightly naked without it, but he also stopped wearing it during the six months following the shooting, so at the same time it also feels rather natural. He smiles back in a perfunctory sort of way, nothing meant to encourage anyone – he’s learned his lesson there, and besides which, he’s completely uninterested in anyone else than Sherlock – and they get the hint and don’t try to talk to him. 

When he gets to Baker Street at last, John gets Rosie out of the buggy, folds it up and gets all of them inside. To his lasting relief, Mrs Hudson is home and crows with delight at seeing her godchild. She’s free all day, she says, and John could kiss her kitten-heeled feet with joy. He thanks her profusely, exchanges all of the necessary information, points out that he’ll be upstairs all day if they need him, and gets himself away. 

Irene is there, to his immediate displeasure. She lifts her head from where it was pillowed on her arm on the back of Sherlock’s chair like a cat becoming alert to a new presence in the room. Somehow John finds that he likes her sitting in Sherlock’s chair even less than when she sits in his. She’s clothed today, at least, though she has a knack for looking naked even in her clothes. Today she’s wearing something long and loose-fitting (a jumpsuit, perhaps? John doesn’t know the word for it) that ties at the waist and nevertheless clings to her slender form, silk trouser socks on her elegant feet. He’s just standing there, eyeing her with dislike, he realises, and she’s gazing back at him just as coolly. 

Before either of them can speak, Sherlock calls from the kitchen. “John?” 

“Yeah, it’s me,” John says, his eyes still on Irene for a second longer, then he turns away from her toward the sound of Sherlock’s voice. “What are you up to?” 

He sees soon enough; Sherlock is kneeling on the counter with the scraping tool in hand, cleaning up a bit of the grout they put in yesterday. “Just neatening things up a little,” he says, looking down at John over his shoulder. “Have you eaten?” 

John nods. “Yeah, I had something at the flat.” Somehow he can’t quite bring himself to refer to it as ‘home’. 

Sherlock frowns at him. “Where’s Rosie?” 

“Down with Mrs Hudson,” John tells him. “She said she’s free all day, so…” He trails off. He sort of wants to ask why Irene is still here and how long she’s going to stay, or whether she’ll just be here with them all day or what, but he can’t, somehow. It would come off as rude. Maybe it would actually be rude, too, but he’s not as fussed about that. 

“Ah,” Sherlock says, in reference to Rosie, and Irene decides to chip in. 

“Rosie?” she repeats, her fingers locked around a large mug of tea that’s resting in her lap. “Who is that?” 

“My daughter,” John says shortly. Somehow he doesn’t feel like discussing this with Irene. He knows very well why; it’s more evidence against his claim on Sherlock, evidence that he was with someone else at least long enough to have produced a child. Irene’s reaction is unexpected, though: she laughs. 

“Rosie!” she says, almost in delight. “No! Tell me you didn’t name your child ‘Rosie’, John!” 

John feels his hackles rise. “Why is that funny? That’s not her full name, but – ” 

She ignores the question, face still full of mirth, mirth at his expense. “Of course not: it’s short for Rosamund Mary.” 

John’s scowl deepens. “How do you know that?” His left hand subconsciously opens and closes several times. He wants to ball it into a fist and drive it into her laughing, knowing-too-much face. 

Irene takes one hand from her cup to gesticulate incredulously. “Because it was one of your wife’s code names. Everyone knows that! I can’t believe you two decided to pass it on to your daughter. Was this Mary’s idea of leaving her ‘legacy’ behind or something? I’d say something about her not having been _that_ full of herself, but the evidence would contradict me, wouldn’t it?” 

Until this moment, John had no idea that Irene knew a damned thing about Mary or that she’d even existed. He feels wrong-footed and wants to look to Sherlock but he can’t break eye contact with Irene, somehow. His jaw clenches. “I don’t know what you mean about leaving a legacy,” he says stiffly. 

Over his shoulder, Sherlock clears his throat. “I wasn’t aware that you were… acquainted with Mary,” he says, also a bit stiff. “You never said.” 

“Oh, darling, everyone who worked for Jim knew each other,” Irene drawls, speaking to Sherlock now, as though John has ceased to exist entirely. “Our paths all crossed at one point or another.” 

John feels his gut clench. Now he turns, pivoting on his heels, and while he can’t quite make eye contact with Sherlock to mutely ask him to intervene, clarify this, Sherlock sees him anyway and spares him having to ask Irene to confirm it.

Sherlock’s voice is tight. “I didn’t know that she worked for… Jim,” he says, pronouncing the name with delicate distaste. 

Irene stares at him. “You’re joking,” she says. “Sherlock. Seriously, tell me that you’re joking.”

Sherlock says nothing, maintaining a stiff silence, so she goes on. 

“Jim was the richest, most powerful terrorist in the world. Mary – it’s odd, calling her that; she was Alice when I knew her – was an assassin who worked for whoever had the most money. Did you really never put it together?” Her eyes shift to John now, cool and smug. “Didn’t _you_?” she asks, as though even John’s feeble wits should have guessed at this. 

John attempts to clear his throat. It takes three tries. “I, er… it was never – we didn’t discuss it,” he says, and wishes more than ever that Irene Adler were anywhere else on the planet than here. 

“I just assumed that you knew,” Irene says, speaking to Sherlock again, and is that a trace of apology in her tone? To _Sherlock_ , but not to him? John fumes inwardly. 

“I suspected,” Sherlock says, a bit aloofly. Perhaps he doesn’t want to discuss his suspicions about Mary in front of John. 

Irene holds out her cup in Sherlock’s direction. “I’ll have another cup,” she says, the expectation in her voice as clear and unapologetic as though she’s ordering in a restaurant. She waits for Sherlock to come over with the teapot, then says, “It’s the most logical deduction in the world, darling. Surely it crossed that big, brilliant mind of yours before now. How else do you think she ever met John? By coincidence? Please.” 

Her tone says exactly what she thinks of this. Sherlock doesn’t look at John as he retreats into the kitchen with the teapot. John decides to speak up. “So that wasn’t just chance, then,” he says. “I did wonder.” 

Irene overtly rolls her eyes at him. “Bravo,” she says. “Very good, John.” Her eyes flick back to Sherlock. “I can see why you keep him around. He’s cute, if somewhat ignorant.” 

Sherlock doesn’t rise to the bait, however. He’s standing at the table, looking down at it, one hand still on the handle of the teapot. “Would you like a cup of tea, John?” he asks quietly. 

John can sense his discomfort, and is temporarily more aware of that than of his own. “Maybe later,” he says. This isn’t finished yet; he can feel that Irene has more to say about it all. 

Sherlock inhales and opens his mouth to speak. “Then perhaps we should – ”

“He still doesn’t know, does he,” Irene cuts in, eyes fixed on Sherlock. 

“Know what?” Sherlock asks, rolling his own eyes. “Without a point of reference, how can I even know what you’re referring t – ”

“The snipers at the pool,” Irene says, interrupting again. “You _know_ , Sherlock. Tell me you’ve got there by now.” 

For a long moment, Sherlock is silent, visibly struggling with something internally. John looks at him and wishes he understood what it was, exactly. Wait – is Irene actually suggesting that Mary was – 

“Just at the pool?” Sherlock asks, still avoiding eye contact with both of them. 

Irene’s pause is loaded. “What do you think?” 

Sherlock doesn’t answer, not moving. John can hear him breathing, and can hear him actively trying to control his response to this, to whatever Irene is implying. He racks his brain. When else were there snipers? He can’t think of any other time. He decides to ask. “When else were there snipers?” 

Irene looks at him, her eyes widening, but for once it’s sincere surprise. She takes in his face for a moment, then says, not looking away, “Sherlock.” There’s an edge of obvious expectation, almost command in her voice. When he still doesn’t answer, Irene finally looks away from him to where Sherlock is still standing at the table, his shoulders visibly tight. Her tone changes to one of awe. “He still doesn’t know! You never told him?” 

“Don’t,” Sherlock says quietly. 

“Sherlock – ”

“We have work to do,” Sherlock interrupts. It’s almost plaintive, but not quite. “John and I. We have an entire flat to fix. We haven’t got time for this right now.” 

“Hang on,” John says, looking back and forth between the two of them. “What’s this about snipers? I have a feeling I need to know this.” 

He looks at Sherlock first, but Sherlock’s face is troubled and clouded over, closed, so he looks at Irene. She shrugs. “I suppose it’s his choice whether or not to tell you.” 

Oh perfect, _now_ she clams up. John looks back to Sherlock. “Are you not going to tell me whatever this is?” he asks, keeping his voice down and trying his damnedest to shut Irene out. 

Sherlock sighs and lets go of the teapot, gripping the edge of the table instead and leaning on his hands, his shoulders hunched. “The day when I jumped,” he says, sounding tired. “There were snipers on site. Three of them, three sites. One was at the Yard, meant for Lestrade. One was here, meant for Mrs Hudson. One was at the hospital, meant for you. I tried to get you out of there but you came back too soon. You figured it out too quickly. You were never meant to see it. Their orders were to shoot unless I was seen to have taken my life. The only person who could rescind the order was Moriarty, and he shot himself in front of me, so I had no choice but to go through with the plan to jump. They had to see it, or else the three of you would have been dead.”

John feels stunned, as though someone has just punched him in the gut and knocked the wind out of his lungs. But before he can even say anything, Irene speaks again. 

“And,” she prompts, pointedly. 

Sherlock coughs and picks up a screwdriver. “And Mary may have been one of the three snipers.” 

John blinks. “‘May have been’?” he repeats. He looks at Irene, not wanting to force Sherlock to be the one to say it. 

Irene looks bored, examining her long, red nails. “Yes. She’s one of the ones who would have shot you. There was more than one for each of you, though. Naturally. Jim wouldn’t have taken any chances there. Ironic that it was Sherlock she ended up shooting instead, isn’t it? Though of course, Sherlock was the only one Jim really cared about seeing dead in the end. He always did like to play with his food first. Alice was just a cog in the great machine. A very lethal cog. Sort of strange that she would want to keep that particular code name in the family, given everything she accomplished while using it. Seems a bit precarious from a legal standpoint, but what do I know. I haven’t got any children.” 

John barely hears this whole last part, his mind still stuck on Sherlock’s revelation about the snipers. He can’t think of a single thing to say, his mind whirling with all of this new information. 

For a long time, Sherlock is still quiet, fighting whatever internal fight he’s got going on. Finally he says, “Look, should we start on the corridor painting, or do you…”

This is safe territory. “No, yeah,” John says. “Let’s do that. Where did you put the paint we got the other day?” 

“In the corridor,” Sherlock says. “I put down the sheets Mrs Hudson lent us earlier this morning.” 

“It’s why he banished me from the bedroom,” Irene adds, to John. 

John ignores this. “All right,” he says. He pulls off his jumper. “I wore my oldest t-shirt on purpose.” He means because it’s ragged and already stained (coffee, he thinks), but it’s also got quite tight across his chest and around his biceps. 

He almost catches Sherlock looking at his arms, but maybe he was just looking at the coffee stain. “I’ll just find something similar, and then we can begin,” he says, making for his bedroom. It’s still a bit awkward between them and John is torn between wishing that Irene weren’t there so that they could talk about this properly, just the two of them – and feeling shamefully relieved that she _is_ there, to spare him doing that very thing. 

*** 

Irene stays where she is all day, more or less. At one point she decides to take a long bath, for which she insists upon leaving the loo door open so that she can still talk to them, by which she means Sherlock, of course. Most of the time she behaves as though John isn’t even there. She has a knack of making requests which are worded as orders, yet contain enough subtle invitation to them to make a person want to respond to her, want to acquiesce. John can see exactly why she must be so good in her line of work. Sherlock generally obeys her requests, but does so without any noticeable feeling about it one way or another. But then, John argues internally again, perhaps he’s just extremely private about this whole thing. Perhaps he loves being bossed around by a dominatrix like this. 

As they break to eat lunch together, Irene’s provocative double-entendres get to be so much that John excuses himself to go down to check on Rosie. Any reason to get away for a bit. Irene is like a perfume one can’t stop smelling even hours later, heady and dizzying, and he thinks miserably that he could understand how and why Sherlock might have fallen victim to it. 

They paint a second coat in the corridor that afternoon. Irene decides to take a nap and does so in Sherlock’s bedroom. She doesn’t ask for permission for this and Sherlock doesn’t object, to John’s teeth-gritting irritation. He wants to ask where Sherlock slept last night, but hasn’t got the nerve, somehow. Forget the chains on his feet: when did someone chop his balls off, he’d like to know! 

Despite his rather miserable inward reflections, the air between them is comfortable, less charged with Irene’s constant demure-isms and chat silenced for a bit. “Cup of tea?” Sherlock asks, once they’ve finished the painting, and John agrees readily. They put the folding ladder away and John takes the paintbrushes to the sink to rinse off. Sherlock comes over, waiting so that he can fill the kettle. “The thing is,” he begins, his voice low despite the running water, “I feel there’s something you should bear in mind.” 

John glances sideways at him. “Oh yeah? What’s that? What are we talking about?” He moves the paintbrushes and moves to let Sherlock fill the kettle. 

Sherlock doesn’t meet his eyes as he does so. “All that, this morning. About the snipers. I just – ” He stops, then goes on after a moment. He shuts off the water and turns his face toward John’s but still doesn’t look directly at him. “There were three people on that list,” he says quietly, his voice strangely intense. “Not my brother. Not my parents. Not my sister. Not Molly. Not – anyone else. Just those three.” 

He moves away so swiftly that John barely has a chance to register that he did until he’s gone. He turns automatically in Sherlock’s direction, like a plant turning toward the sunlight, the words sinking into his brain. He thinks he gets it, what Sherlock’s saying: Irene wasn’t on that list. But now? Would things be different now? Sherlock is stooping to plug the kettle in. John opens his mouth to just ask, just get it out of the way, and at that propitious moment, Irene reappears in the doorway of the kitchen. John wants to scream, or throttle her. 

She doesn’t even look rumpled. She’s reapplied her lipstick and looks as perfect as ever. “Your bed is so comfortable, Sherlock. And the corridor looks fantastic. Look at you, all casual.” She’s amused again, her large, blue eyes twinkling mirth at him, but there’s a deep strain of sensuality to it. She’s very attracted to him and John can sense it palpably. She goes to Sherlock and steps into the space in front of him, her hands coming up to stroke his upper arms. “Look at these arms,” she says admiringly. “I’ve never seen you look so rustic before. I like it! I could just kiss you right now – ” 

“No.”

“No!”

Their voices overlap, speaking at the same time, and John realises with horror that he spoke out loud. 

Sherlock and Irene both look at him, Irene surprised and slightly put out, Sherlock intense and unreadable. John’s eyes are locked to Sherlock’s for a single, breathtakingly loaded moment, then Sherlock looks back at Irene, creases forming between his eyebrows and at the bridge of his nose as he frowns. “ _No_ ,” he says again. “What a ridiculous thing to say. I’m _gay_. I thought you always knew that women weren’t my area. I thought it was the very reason we were able to be friends in the first place.” 

Irene’s face is troubled, her eyes like bruised pansies, the smooth veneer of her overwhelming self-confidence faltering. She stops touching Sherlock’s arms, putting her hands on her narrow waist instead, defensive. “I thought we were always each other’s exceptions,” she says, searching his eyes. “Sherlock… I thought – ”

Sherlock waits, the corners of his mouth set stubbornly. “You thought what?” he prompts, his tone needling. “You told me that you might be in trouble. I said ‘You know where to find me’. I thought that, given the precedent of my having rescued you once before, my offer of help would be clearly understood as such – as that and nothing more. Were you really in trouble, or was this a feint all along to stage some sort of – whatever this is?” 

Irene’s mouth takes on a stubborn set of its own, her jaw going square and obstinate. “I thought you had hinted at more,” she says, a bit petulantly. “Clearly I read you wrong. In that case, I completely understand why you said no just now. I don’t understand why _he_ said it, though,” she says, shooting a contemptuous look at John. “It’s not as though he would ever do anything about it, no matter how jealous he gets. Not according to _precedent_ , in any case.” 

They’re both looking at him, Irene with condescension, Sherlock with uneasiness, uncertainty in his eyes and framing his mouth.

John swallows. “Right,” he says tightly. “Then today’s the day that changes.” He takes a step and, to his own surprise, realises that the chains binding him in place all this time have disappeared. Perhaps they were never there at all. He crosses the room to Sherlock, inserts himself in front of Irene, puts his hands on Sherlock’s face and kisses him. For a moment Sherlock doesn’t react, too stunned, perhaps, but then a bit of breath comes out his nose and his lips tighten against John’s, his large hands finding their way to John’s hips and holding on. The kiss goes on for several long moments, then John breaks it off, gently. He searches Sherlock’s eyes and sees no objection, no rejection, only uncertainty on the surface underscored with a very decided want just beneath it. “I’m sorry,” John murmurs, Irene all but forgotten. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters any more but this. “I should have done that years ago. Literal years.” 

Sherlock appears to be having difficulty speaking. “I wish you had,” he gets out, and John wants to laugh and cry and hug Sherlock for about a month straight all at the same time. He doesn’t, though, conscious of Irene’s presence, but can’t take his eyes from Sherlock’s, either. 

“I suppose that’s my cue to go,” Irene says from behind him, very dryly. 

Sherlock looks at her over John’s shoulder. “Yes,” he says firmly. “I think you should go. If you’re genuinely in trouble, you can ask any time. You know where to find me. Mycroft, too, I should think.” 

John moves to walk away a little to let them say goodbye and goes to perch on the arm of his chair. 

She gives Sherlock a half-smile. “He’s a bit less forgiving than you,” she says, her brows high. John almost has it in him to feel sorry for her, for what must be some rather bruised pride. 

“Well, yes,” Sherlock says. “He’s rather sensitive on the topic of treason and all that.”

“He would be.” Irene nods toward the bedroom. “I’ll just get my things, then.” 

She goes. John looks at Sherlock, hardly daring to believe this is happening, but Sherlock just shakes his head very slightly and John gets it: everything they both need to say has to wait until they’re alone at last. “Just – wait,” Sherlock says softly, nodding toward the corridor, though John already understands. 

“Of course,” he says, and Sherlock gives him a small, tight smile. The smile hits John in the chest and he feels himself dissolving on the inside. He wants more than anything to put his arms around Sherlock, put his mouth to Sherlock’s again, and tell him everything he’s never had the nerve to say since the day they met. Instead, he makes himself sit still, waiting with an impatience that prickles at his skin from the inside, arms crossed as he waits for Irene to take herself off. 

She’s mercifully quick at packing, at least. She emerges from Sherlock’s bedroom in her coat and heels a few minutes later, a small bag slung over her shoulder. She comes over and says, “Well, I’ll be off, then.” 

Sherlock doesn’t resist it in the slightest. “You’ll be all right?” he asks. 

Irene smiles and nods. “Of course I will. You know me.” 

“Quite,” Sherlock says, a bit dryly, and John almost laughs.

She shifts her eyes to John at last, and her gaze is cool and calculating. “I must say, I never thought you’d actually do it,” she admits. She hesitates. “Congratulations. You won. I’m happy for you both.” 

John finds himself slight disarmed, despite the aloofness of her tone. He decides to be nice about this and not say that he doesn’t believe her congratulations for a second. “Thanks,” he says, and she nods and goes. 

They listen to the click of her heels descending, to the front door. When it closes, Sherlock looks at him and his lips press together a little, possibly self-conscious. John gets to his feet, barely breathing, his eyes on Sherlock and Sherlock alone. 

“John…” Sherlock says, and it comes out low, full of unspoken emotion that John’s never heard there before, and that breaks the tension.

He rushes across the room and this time it’s almost frantic, reaching for each other at the same time, their mouths coming together with force. Sherlock’s fingers clench in the back of John’s ratty old t-shirt, and John knows that he’s gripping Sherlock probably much too hard, but it doesn’t matter: they’re kissing and all that matters is that they not stop. Their mouths open jointly, biting at each other’s and John almost wishes he could slow it all down and make it more sensual, more romantic, but it’s as if the need on both their parts had just become too great. Now that they both know that they want it – and John was only just getting there when Irene interrupted. Now he knows that Sherlock must have loved him all along, loved him in a way that Mary never did – that Mary never even would have understood. The level of sacrifice Sherlock has already put himself through for his sake is staggering. 

The kiss goes on longer than any other John’s ever had in his life. Finally it eases off, leaving them breathless in each other’s arms. Somehow Sherlock’s hair has become rather wild, and John suspects that his hands may have been the cause of this. “ _God_ I’m such a moron,” he says, panting, searching Sherlock’s eyes. “I’m – I can’t believe you still want me after all this time, and after everything I’ve – ”

“No. Shut up. Shut up. Don’t say it.” Sherlock’s mouth is on his again, kissing him hard, and John doesn’t fight it. “It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock gets out, his mouth still on John’s. “None of it matters now.” He pulls back just enough to be able to look into John’s eyes and his words come out in a rush. “I just – I didn’t know how to tell you. About any of it. Irene. The – rest. I knew what you must have thought, with her, and I was so frustrated but I didn’t know how to just tell you that if you were worried, you needn’t be. There’s never been anything like that there. I honestly thought that she understood implicitly how I’ve always felt about you. I thought that was _why_ she was always so flirtatious, because she thought I was ‘safe’ in that sense.” 

John licks his lips. “We’re not very good at this, are we,” he says ruefully. “But me especially. I didn’t help anything. Between Mary and blaming you and then getting so stupidly jealous but never actually doing anything about it, just asking you if you and Irene were together or if you wanted to be, all I could do was seethe about it and wish she would go away. Have you really always felt this way?” 

“Since longer than I can recall,” Sherlock tells him, his voice low and intimate, and John has no choice but to kiss him again. 

This time it’s slower and deeper still, but no less intense. It’s so passionate that John feels like he could about die just now. He’d no idea that Sherlock felt this much, or that he could be like this. He was right: Sherlock _is_ extremely private about it, evidently. But it was never about Irene. The kiss goes on and on, their arms wrapped tightly around each other. John feels as though he can’t get close enough to Sherlock, and Sherlock seems to be feeling the same way, their thighs pressed together, bodies touching down both their fronts. John can feel himself responding physically to this and hopes Sherlock won’t be put off by it. Now that it’s sure that Irene was never in the picture that way, he can be fairly certain again that Sherlock is fairly much completely inexperienced and doesn’t want to push anything on him before it’s time. But then Sherlock starts kissing a rather sensitive place on his neck and John gasps, blood rushing south and stiffening his erection almost painfully, his hips jerking forward in automatic response, pressing into Sherlock. He moans again, because Sherlock is hard, too, and feeling him like that – for real, not just in a dream – is unbelievable. John feels the sharpness of Sherlock’s inhalation, directly into his neck, and then his hands are sliding up the back of John’s t-shirt to grip his skin. John throws his head back, mouth open, and attempts to breathe and just hold on. Sherlock’s mouth descends on his throat and he thinks he might just shoot off in his pants if this keeps up. He hears himself say Sherlock’s name, and it comes out shaky and punctured with breath. 

Sherlock is kissing his jaw now and makes a _hmm_ -ing sound in response. 

John grasps him by the upper arms both he and Irene were admiring, not wanting to deter him in any way whatsoever, but needing to be certain about this. “I – you told me once that you didn’t, er – that you’ve – never been with anyone,” he gets out, distracted by Sherlock’s mouth. 

Sherlock pauses, then resumes kissing his throat. “Mmm,” he says, not sounding as though he cares particularly. “What of it?” 

John opens his eyes and tilts Sherlock’s face back up to look at him. “I just don’t want to push anything here – ” he starts, but Sherlock cuts him off. 

His eyes are flooded with arousal, dark and starry, his cheeks flushed, hair wild. “I thought I was the one pushing it,” he says, very directly. 

He’s got a point there. John spares a moment to note that Sherlock’s triceps are absolutely phenomenal. He licks his lips again. “Okay, but – I mean, I’m not in _any_ way unenthusiastic about this. I just don’t want you to feel like we have to jump right into – this.” 

Sherlock blinks at him and licks his lips, either consciously or subconsciously mimicking John. “Fine: I don’t feel like we have to jump right into sex. That said, can we please take our clothes off now? I genuinely never thought this would happen and have wanted it for a very long time now. I’m frankly rather desperate to do this with you at last.”

He delivers all of this with a great deal of intensity, his tone completely even, face straight, and John’s heart rate spikes even as his mouth floods with saliva. He swallows and manages to nod. “Er – yeah, okay then,” he gets out, and after that, there isn’t much more talking. 

Sherlock’s large hands strip him in seconds, John fighting to get Sherlock out of his things at the same time but distracted by Sherlock’s mouth on his neck. If he ever thought that lack of experience would slow Sherlock down any, he thought wrong, and it’s bloody fantastic. His pulse is pounding through his skin. This is exhilarating, far more exciting than his first time with a girl. Sherlock steps out of his trousers and underwear at the same time, revealing an incredibly nice cock – figures, John thinks, salivating at the sight of it – the rest of Sherlock is gorgeous, so why should this be any different? It’s flushed dark and standing nearly upright against his flat stomach. He wants to touch it but before he can make a move to do so, Sherlock drops into a crouch to pull John’s socks off. He does it, then raises his face and seems to get stuck at the sight of John’s erection, which is every bit as hard as Sherlock’s is, the foreskin already rolled back to expose the head. Sherlock exhales deeply and touches his tongue to his lips. He leans forward and rubs the length of his cheek against it, simultaneously inhaling, his nose pressed into the light thatch of John’s pubic hair. It’s completely arousing and John finds himself swallowing and licking his lips again, his fingers clutching at Sherlock’s hair as his cock throbs and swells even further. 

He says Sherlock’s name and it comes out shaky. Sherlock looks up at him in question and John has to lick his lips again at the sight of him like that, kneeling and looking up at him with those strangely innocent-seeming blue eyes. His heart is in his throat. “Come here,” he says, his voice low and unsteady. Sherlock doesn’t question it, just stands up in one fluid motion, his intense blue gaze locked to John’s. John puts his arms around Sherlock and shivers as Sherlock does the same, their naked bodies coming into full contact for the first time, and the intimacy is so potent that it’s nearly painful. They’re stroking each other’s backs and sides and arms, and it’s fuelled by clumsy need, their cocks bumping together, and making John groan into Sherlock’s mouth. He gives in at last and lets his hands slide down the length of Sherlock’s smoothly muscled back to settle on the firm curve of his arse, which he thinks now was tailor-made to fit his hands. Sherlock moans into his mouth, kissing him harder still, their tongues and bodies pressing together jointly, Sherlock taking hold of his arse and pulling them into even closer alignment. 

Sherlock breaks the kiss off. “Point of procedure,” he says, hands still on John’s arse. 

John feels his brows lift. “Oh? What’s that?” 

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” Sherlock says, the confession low and nonetheless rather alluring. “You’ll have to show me everything.” 

John blinks at him. “What makes you think _I’ve_ done this before?” 

Sherlock hesitates. “You’ve never – with a – ”

John thinks briefly of the opportunities he’s had over the years, but he never let himself before, did he, thanks to a lifetime of solid denial. “Never,” he says firmly. 

“But it can’t be that different,” Sherlock says. He puts his lips to John’s forehead, his cheek, his jawline. “I want to do everything there is to do. I want you. I want you now. _Please_.” 

John swallows hard and nods. “Yeah. Okay,” he says breathlessly. He thinks of the bedroom, then thinks of the Irene’s scent all over the sheets. “Sofa,” he says instead, and Sherlock nods and kisses him again as they stumble across the room to it. John yanks down the blanket from the back of it and attempts to shake it out over the leather one-armed, distracted by his need to not stop kissing Sherlock for even a second, then tumbles them both onto the cushions. He’s on top of Sherlock, their legs tangling together, their cocks rubbing up against each other’s in shivery microshocks of pleasure. John shifts his weight to his left arm and reaches for the bottle of hand lotion Sherlock keeps on the coffee table and rubs it onto them both, touching Sherlock’s cock for the first time. Next time they’ll go slower, he thinks hazily, already thrusting against Sherlock, unable to hold himself back or force Sherlock to take it slower than what he obviously wants; his hands are on John’s arse, gripping and squeezing as he lifts to press himself to John in a steady counter-rhythm. It already feels so good that John is panting. How the hell is Sherlock so good at this already? He can feel himself leaking and drops his face forward to bite at Sherlock’s neck as he rocks against him. Pleasure is gathering between them, sweating out of his skin and oozing from the tips of both their cocks and suddenly John remembers the well dreams, thinks of rutting against Sherlock through their clothes and just like that, the orgasm is almost upon him. He’s breathless, hips snapping forward. Sherlock’s fingers are gripping his arse so hard that they’re pulling his cheeks apart a little and the very suggestion of Sherlock touching him there is almost too much stimulation right now. “Sherlock!” he gasps out, trying to hold himself back. “I’m – are you – ”

Sherlock’s eyes are locked to his, his lips open, breathing shallowly. He seems incapable of speech at the moment, but winds a leg around John’s to deepen his leverage. John reaches down between them and starts jerking them off jointly, and less than thirty seconds into this Sherlock closes his eyes, his jaw clenching, and then his hips jerk and he gives a choked-off gasp of air and begins to spurt hotly between them. He cries out, his body going rigid, still shooting out streams of release, and that does it. John gives one more thrust against Sherlock’s erupting cock and comes so hard that his vision blacks out, stars bursting behind his retinas. 

When it finally lets up, he finds himself slumped onto Sherlock’s chest, both of them breathing hard. One of Sherlock’s hands is still cradling his arse and the other is in John’s hair. “Oh my God,” John pants, his speech slurred. “Jesus, Sherlock. I had no idea. No idea you wanted this so much.” 

“Mmmmm.” Sherlock sounds like a sleepy jungle cat, his voice low and very relaxed and intensely satisfied-sounding. He doesn’t speak for a few moments as they lie there, panting together, but when he does it’s to correct what John said. “Wanted _you_.”

John lifts his face and Sherlock opens his eyes. John feels so much that he can’t quite seem to speak. All he can do is gaze into Sherlock’s eyes, trying to communicate it with his eyes. He lowers his mouth to Sherlock’s and kisses him for a long, slow, incredibly good moment. “I wish we’d got here a lot faster,” he says wistfully, after. 

“I’m just glad we’re here now,” Sherlock says, and reaches up to touch John’s face with the hand that was on his arse. He rubs his thumb over John’s cheekbone. “Kiss me again,” he requests, so John does it, again, then again, and again. 

*** 

It seems like the whole world has changed by the time they pull themselves together and get off the sofa. Sherlock stretches and says that he’ll be back, disappearing down the corridor to the loo. John watches him go and tries to believe that what just happened really happened. He finds his clothes and dresses himself again, then pads barefoot into the kitchen to turn on the kettle and give himself a cursory clean-up at the sink. He feels both sated and still slightly nervous, as though this is a very important first date or something. It is, sort of, but it all happened so fast that he can barely process it. He listens to Sherlock moving about in his bedroom, probably getting dressed again, too, and wonders if he’s going through something similar. Surely he won’t panic and regret it. John thinks about this with some consternation, then thinks, no. Not after what he said, about having wanted it for so long, and his unrelenting need throughout. He didn’t make a lot of sound, but it was there in his breath, in his eyes, in the way he was moving against John, maximising the rocking of their bodies… no, he definitely wanted it. But it’s still new. 

The bedroom door opens and Sherlock’s steps approach. John turns back to face the sink, rinsing out their tea mugs from earlier and trying to feign casualness. 

Sherlock comes into the kitchen and crosses over to him without pausing, his long arms slipping around John’s middle, his face in John’s hair, the length of him warming John all down his back. “Hello,” Sherlock says, and John gives a laugh, just a huff of air that’s more relief than anything. 

“Hi, you,” he says, and reaches to shut off the water. His hands are wet but he puts them both on Sherlock’s forearms and squeezes anyway. 

For a moment Sherlock just squeezes back, holding him. Then he says, “I’m still trying to wrap my mind around this. This is really happening.” 

John leans back against him and tilts his head back. “I feel the exact same way,” he says. “It happened so fast…” 

Sherlock presses his lips into John’s temple. “Can you blame me, with you wearing these tight t-shirts every day and tormenting me?” 

John’s laugh is pleased this time. “I thought it was your t-shirts that were getting all the attention earlier.” 

“Irene is an idiot,” Sherlock says. He rubs his palms over John’s stomach and nuzzles his face into John’s neck and John feels like he’s died and gone to heaven. 

“God, you’re fantastic,” he murmurs, his eyes closing, pulling Sherlock’s arms closer around himself. “Jesus. I got us so far off track.” 

Sherlock makes a hmmm-ing sound into his skin. “The whole wife bit didn’t help,” he allows, and John starts to laugh again, for real this time. 

He twists himself around in Sherlock’s arms. “Bit of a mixed message, I’d agree,” he says, and Sherlock kisses him. It goes on for ages, Sherlock leaning him up against the worktop, neither of them at all shy about this now, even in the calmer aftermath, and John feels entirely reassured. Sherlock really does want this. Him. It’s incredible, he thinks. He could do this all day. And maybe, he thinks, ignoring the kettle as it begins to whistle, maybe he just will. 

*** 

Mrs Hudson brings Rosie up around supper time, saying that a friend called and invited her out. She doesn’t seem to notice anything different between them, but then they’re studiously careful not to let on, either. She comments on the paint job in the corridor and wonders that they haven’t got it finished yet. Neither of them tells her how or why they got off track and lost interest in it. Tomorrow, Sherlock had said vaguely when John brought it up, and they spent the rest of the day sitting close together on the sofa, talking through a few of the things that John’s wished he knew how to bring up before but didn’t know how. He apologises for his terrible letter, and for having shut Sherlock out. He apologises for that day in the hospital, and for having gone back to Mary. Sherlock’s arms tighten at this and he doesn’t say anything for a little while. Then he apologises for that day at St. Bart’s and not having told John that he was still alive. 

John looks up into Sherlock’s eyes at that. “But you didn’t have a choice. I understand that now. I wish you had told me about the snipers, though. I like to think I would have understood.” 

Sherlock nods, looking away. “Perhaps you would have,” he says, though it sounds a bit distant, as though he’s lost in his thoughts. “I didn’t realise it would have mattered so much. To you, I mean.” 

“Well, it did and it does,” John says firmly. “And maybe you’re right that I wouldn’t have been able to pretend I could just – carry on with my life while knowing that you were out there somewhere, alive and alone with everything you were doing. I would have wanted to be there with you, you know.” 

Sherlock smiles now. “I hoped that you would have,” he says, his lips compressing a little. “When I got back… I wasn’t as sure.” 

“Because of Mary,” John says bluntly, and Sherlock doesn’t deny it. John sighs. “I know. I’m sorry.” 

They worked through a lot of it, and it was okay. Now, Mrs Hudson is examining their tile work admiringly. “It’s looking much better already,” she says brightly. “Well. I’ll just be off, then. You three have a nice evening. Ta ta.” 

They say goodbye and John looks over to where Sherlock is pretending to examine a packet of pasta. They wait, listening to her heels descending the stairs, then Sherlock looks over at him and says, “So much for my nefarious plans to convince you to stay overnight.” 

John’s heart rate spikes. “Is that what you were planning?” he asks, trying to get it to come out casually. 

Sherlock makes a hummed sound of agreement, turning away to put a pot of water on the stove. “Something along those lines, yes.” 

John can’t resist. Rosie is in the high chair Sherlock produced from somewhere a little while ago, claiming practicality. She’s safe and staying put for the moment, so John crosses the kitchen to where Sherlock is standing at the stove and puts his arms around him from behind, the way Sherlock did to him earlier. “Again?” he says archly, lifting his brows, though Sherlock can’t see it. “Already?”

He’s teasing, but Sherlock’s breath hitches. He nods. “Yes,” he says. “Problem?” 

“None whatsoever.” John lets his arms tighten. “Pity. I think I’ll have to take her back to the flat tonight. But tomorrow… I’ll find someone to take Rosie for the day, and come back…” 

Sherlock puts his hands on John’s. “Good,” he says. He clears his throat. “You realise that this position is somewhat suggestive…” 

John’s hips are pressing lightly into Sherlock’s arse and it’s his turn to swallow at Sherlock’s implication. “Er, sorry,” he says, and it comes out a bit mangled. He shifts away a little. “Better?” 

Sherlock looks back over his shoulder at him, his eyes slanted and his mouth impish. “What would be better would be doing that right here and now. However, I’d rather not scar your daughter for life, though she’s likely too young to remember. There _are_ limits.”

John thinks of the last time that Sherlock said that, at the wedding, and feels a pang of fresh sorrow. That night must have been brutal for Sherlock. “Tomorrow,” he says tightly. “We can finish the painting first, if you like. It should only take one more coat. And then I’m all yours.” 

Sherlock exhales deeply. “All right, then,” he says. He turns around in John’s arms, ignoring the water, which is now boiling. “Then kiss me, at least.” 

John can’t deny him and wouldn’t if he could. 

*** 

He wakes with the sun in his eyes and his sister’s voice in his ears. His eyes open and he feels himself frowning, seeing Harry in the doorway of the bedroom, her overly loud _Good morning_ still echoing in his head. “What are you doing here?” It comes out scratchy and not particularly gracious, but she’s just turned up uninvited in his bedroom. John looks over at the time and sees that it’s only half-past seven. He was planning to call her once he was awake, but she’s beaten him to it. 

Harry rolls her eyes at him, likely at his abruptness. “I think the accepted response is ‘good morning’, but what do I know.” 

John tries not to sigh. They’ve been a little better at masking their inherent inability to get on in light of all the time she and Liz have spent looking after Rosie for him, but the veneer is still quite thin. He pinches the bridge of his nose and rubs his eyes tiredly. “Sorry,” he says. “You startled me. I wasn’t expecting you this morning.” 

That’s Harry’s cue to explain herself, her presence in his flat. “I wanted to come before Rosie was awake.” She looks at the video monitor. “I heard you called Liz yesterday, tried to get her to take Rosie.” 

John feels immediately defensive. “It was just to see if she was available. I knew you were out of the city for that thing.” 

Harry gives him a pointed look. “We had her Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday this week, and you called to see if Liz could take her on Friday, too? Are you ever going to be available to raise your own child, John?” 

This doesn’t help. He also doesn’t particularly appreciate being confronted while he’s in his underwear by a woman who’s spent more of her adult life in rehab than out, to boot. At the same time, he was rather hoping to get them to take Rosie again, so it’s worth his while to tread carefully here. “Look, I’m sorry,” he says tiredly. “It’s just that things have been crazy lately with the renovations and the whole thing with Sherlock’s sister. It’s not that Rosie isn’t a priority. She is. I love her. Obviously.”

Harry comes a little closer and sits down on the corner of the bed. “Those two things don’t mean the same thing,” she says. He’s a bit confused by what she means, but before he can ask, she turns her head and looks at him. “You love her. That’s clear enough. That doesn’t mean she’s a priority, though. Or – not necessarily as high a priority as she should be.” 

John swallows, then looks down at his hands, stretching out his fingers, and nods. “Yeah. Okay. I deserve that,” he says, uncomfortable. “I know I haven’t done the best job so far. I do think that things are going to calm down soon, though, and then – ”

“And then what?” Harry interrupts, levelling him with her gaze. It’s still a bit accusatory, but not as much as it could be. “Then you’ll go back to the clinic? Or then you’ll go back to solving crimes with Sherlock at all hours of the day and night? What will that mean for Rosie? Have you even thought that far? Or were you planning to stop working and be a full-time stay-at-home parent?” 

John squirms internally. These are some of the very questions he’s been avoiding asking himself. They’re decidedly not easier to hear from the know-it-all mouth of his older sister. “Look… I’m going to get that sorted, all right?” he gets out. It’s strained. “I – the truth is that I haven’t worked it out yet, but I’m going to. I just need a little while longer. A little more help. If you don’t mind.” 

Harry looks at him for a long time. Her eyes are clear and perfectly sober. She earned her five-year badge just last month, John recalls. “Okay,” she says, and the lack of argument is almost a miracle. “How much longer?” 

“I’m not sure yet,” John admits. “I _was_ going to ask about this weekend, though…” 

Harry’s brows lift. “Just today, or…?” 

He tries not to wince. “An overnight, if you’re up for it?” 

Harry doesn’t say whatever she’s thinking, but she looks unimpressed. “Going somewhere?” 

“No,” John says quickly. “Just Baker Street. We just thought we’d work through the weekend, get some things done.” 

“‘Things’,” Harry repeats, singling out the word with a great deal of suspicion. “Do any of these ‘things’ involve nudity, or are you still stuck with that one?” 

John feels his face heat despite himself. Harry always was forcefully blunt about sex. He clears his throat and wishes again that he weren’t in his underwear for this conversation. “I was talking about painting and other renos, but… since you mentioned it, that might also happen, yeah.” 

Harry’s brows rise again and this time she looks genuinely surprised. “Are you serious? You finally got yourself out of the closet? Jesus. I never thought you’d get there! I was joking!” 

John clears his throat again. “Yeah, well, it just started yesterday,” he says, looking at his hands again. “It’s – new. That’s the only reason why I’m asking for the overnight. We just – need a bit of time to – to establish ourselves. _And_ work on the renos.” 

Harry’s incredulity fades and she looks at him for awhile, then nods. “Yeah. Okay. I get that,” she says, and John remembers with a rush of relief that, despite her bluntness and short temper, Harry can really be quite decent when she wants to be. “Shall I see about getting Rosie up, then?” she asks, nodding toward the video monitor. 

John glances at it, too. “She’s still sleeping,” he says. “Come down and have a cup of tea first. Or coffee, if you’d rather. Breakfast, too, if you like. Then I’ll pack her a bag and we’ll get her fed and that.” 

Harry nods again. “Sounds good,” she says. “I’ll go down and let you get dressed.” 

John waits for her to go, then sits up and realises that he didn’t dream of the well for the first time since all of that happened. He thinks of blatantly crossing the sitting room in front of Irene Adler and finally kissing Sherlock like he should have done about six years ago yesterday, and smiles. Maybe doing that, taking charge of the situation and going after what he’s wanted all along was the catalyst for solving some of the trauma he’s been carrying around with him all this time. Maybe that’s all it will take to be able to move past it. It feels so freeing, knowing that this is finally happening at last, that he can go to Sherlock and put his arms around him, kiss him, hold him. He remembers Sherlock wanting him to stay over, of their tentative plans to take the next steps ahead today, and suddenly his heart is racing. He gets up and hurries into the loo to shower. The day can’t come quickly enough. First things first, though, he admonishes himself: first it’s Harry and Rosie and breakfast. _Then_ he can get back to Sherlock at last. 

*** 

Sherlock is up when he arrives, waiting at the kitchen table and leafing through the paper. There’s half a cup of tea beside him and a plate with toast crumbs, and John feels relieved that Sherlock went ahead and ate without him. Sherlock looks up, hearing his step. His eyebrows lift, his face brightening probably more than he realises. “Hello,” he says. 

John feels oddly nervous. “Hi,” he says, smiling back. 

Sherlock gets to his feet. He’s wearing a pair of jeans, old and worn thin and hanging low on his hips, paired with a t-shirt with a hole in the shoulder and what might be a previous paint stain on the belly. “Tea?” he asks, simultaneously touching the teapot on the table with the back of his hand. “This might not be hot any more, but I can make another one – ”

He’s nervous, too, John realises, and relaxes a bit. “It’s okay, I can make it,” he says. 

“No, let me,” Sherlock insists, already going for the kettle. He fills it hastily and plugs it in, flips the switch, then combs his fingers through his hair. “Er – have you eaten?” 

John looks at him and warmth spreads throughout his torso. “Yeah,” he says, reassuring Sherlock. “I have.” He goes over and puts his hands on Sherlock’s hips, very much aware of Sherlock’s acute gaze on every movement he makes. “Morning,” he says, letting his voice drop to a murmur, and lifts his chin to brush his lips against Sherlock’s before letting them tighten into a kiss. 

Sherlock’s arms come around his shoulders and he kisses back with what feels like relief, relaxing into it tangibly. When the kiss ends, he opens his eyes, blinks once or twice, then says, “This is – odd. Not odd – not bad, I mean, just – I’m not entirely certain how to proceed.”

John nods, not letting go of Sherlock. “I know,” he says. “It’s been so long that we haven’t been – this. We’re so… used to how things were. It’s hard to know what to do now, and when. All that. But we’ll figure it out. Together.” 

Sherlock nods. “Yes. Okay.” He bends to reclaim John’s mouth then and they kiss for several minutes more, and it’s really bloody good, John thinks. When the kettle starts to boil, Sherlock breaks it off, looking surprised. “That was quick,” he comments. 

“Or possibly you were slightly preoccupied,” John suggests, grinning and releasing Sherlock so that he can make the tea.” 

“More than slightly, I should think.” Sherlock opens a canister of tea and scoops loose leaves into the teapot, having emptied it of the cold tea. “So: tea, then painting?” 

John nods again. “Yeah. Good plan. And then after…”

Sherlock glances at him from beneath his lashes. “What have you done with Rosie today?” he asks obliquely. 

“Harry and Liz have her,” John says, willing his voice to come out steady. “In fact… they’re going to keep her for the weekend.”

Sherlock blinks. He ducks his face, putting the lid on the teapot. “I see,” he says, but John hears that there’s a good deal behind it. Sherlock clears his throat. “That was – good,” he says, and John’s chest glows all over again. 

“I thought we deserved it,” he says quietly. “It’s taken us so long. I thought we deserved at least a weekend. You know: to get ourselves – established, as it were.” 

Sherlock looks at him now, then nods. “Yes,” he says simply. “Quite. In that case, let’s get painting.” 

John smiles at him and tries to persuade the flock of butterflies in his belly to settle down. “Sure.” 

*** 

They paint a second coat in the corridor and it takes all morning. John finds he can barely keep his eyes off Sherlock’s arms and chest in the threadbare t-shirt he’s got on today and thinks that Irene certainly would have been purring over those biceps of his were she here. But she isn’t, and he feels enormously smug about the fact. He thinks back to when they first met Irene, and spontaneously says, “I feel like an idiot now for being so jealous of Irene all that time.” 

Sherlock makes a sound that might be a snort. “Well, she certainly wanted you to think that there was something going on. I could tell that you were bothered but I didn’t realise how much until recently. And then instead of talking to you about it plainly, I got resentful that you wouldn’t tell me that you wanted something more but were nonetheless objecting to her presence.” He dips his roller in the paint and skims off the excess, then adds, “We really are particularly bad at this.” 

“We’ll be better now,” John says, looking back over his shoulder from the ladder he’s standing on, painting close to the ceiling. “In a way, we’ve been making the same mistake from the very start. Now that we both know that we want this, we won’t misunderstand each other so badly. Plus the Mary complication is done, so there’s nothing in our way now.”

Sherlock looks up at him, then smiles. He changes the subject. “Are you hungry?” he asks. “It’s nearly lunchtime. I thought perhaps I’d make something.” 

John nods. “Yeah. Okay. I just have this one patch left to do.” 

“I’ll go and get started, then,” Sherlock decides. “Take your time.” 

“Okay.” John turns his attention back to his wall and gets it finished quickly. He caps the paint cans and takes the brushes into the kitchen to rinse off. Sherlock is at the counter, chopping coriander and John sees a pile of diced tomatoes nearby. “What are we having?” he asks. 

“Quesadillas,” Sherlock responds. “With salad, I thought. If that sounds all right to you.” 

“It sounds great,” John says approvingly. He finishes rinsing the brushes and leaves them to drip dry in the drying rack, then wipes his hands and goes over to Sherlock. “Can I help?” 

He’s standing very close behind Sherlock and frankly hoping to distract him in doing so, and it works. Sherlock glances back over his shoulder. “If you like,” he says, trailing off. He clears his throat. “You could – start the salad?” 

“Okay,” John says, but makes no move to do it. Instead his puts his hands on Sherlock’s upper arms and squeezes. “God, you look amazing like this. You should wear jeans and your oldest t-shirts more often.” 

Sherlock’s breath catches. “Do you like it?” he asks archly. “I haven’t worn these jeans in years. Possibly since university.” 

“I can imagine it,” John says, still caressing Sherlock’s arms and marvelling that he’s allowed to do this now. He lets his hands slip down to Sherlock’s sides, then around to stroke his lithely-muscled stomach. “God, you’re gorgeous,” he murmurs. “I’ve always thought so, you know.” 

Sherlock swallows with difficulty and puts his hands over John’s. “John… ”

“Hmm?” John’s mouth is near Sherlock’s ear. He lips at it. “What?” 

Sherlock seems to be struggling to choose the right words. Finally he says, “Perhaps lunch can wait… unless you’re feeling particularly hungry?” 

John’s pulse doubles at the implication. “There’s only one thing I’m hungry for right now,” he says, letting his voice drop into blatantly sexual territory, and Sherlock exhales audibly. His fingers intertwine with John’s and he looks back over his shoulder again. 

“Then let’s go to the bedroom,” he says, and John makes an unintelligible sound of definite agreement as Sherlock turns in his arms to plant his mouth on John’s. 

They kiss for a long moment, then abandon the beginnings of the meal and make their way with care down the freshly-painted corridor. John gets the door closed behind them and Sherlock crowds him up against it, kissing him hungrily. John grips his t-shirt, then slides his hands up it instead, fingers probing into the muscle of Sherlock’s back. After a little, both shirts come off and they’re kissing chest-to-chest, John revelling in the feel of Sherlock’s arms around him, the flex of his biceps moving against his skin. Sherlock slides his hands into the back pockets of John’s jeans and squeezes and John groans. He’s standing on his toes, pressing himself to Sherlock, hard as a rod and loving that he can feel Sherlock’s arousal through their jeans. He wants to remove every stitch of clothing from Sherlock’s body and touch him everywhere, taste his skin and make him feel better than he’s ever felt before. He breaks of the kiss, his heart pounding. “Take these off,” he says, his voice low and heavy with desire for the man in his arms. He squeezes Sherlock’s delectable arse to show what he means, then adds, “All of it. I want to be naked with you again.”

Sherlock nods, his lips parted, his eyes never leaving John’s. There’s a line between his eyes that might be slight anxiety, but perhaps he’s just anxious to do this again. “You too,” he requests, and John nods. 

“Yeah. Absolutely,” he says. They undress and John pulls Sherlock to himself again, walking him backward towards the bed as they kiss, hands roving wildly, touching and stroking whatever they can reach. 

Sherlock gets into bed first and pulls John onto him, their cocks pushing together in stiff need. Sherlock’s hands are pressing into his back, lifting to unabashedly seek more of the delicious friction between them. “John – I – show me what I should – ” he gasps out. 

John kisses him, then does it again, then lifts his face. It’s all crowding in on him, everything he feels, how much it means to actually be doing this. It’s worth slowing down to take stock of it for a second. He strokes Sherlock’s forehead and says, “Nothing, Sherlock. Just – let me touch you. I want to see you properly at last, want to make you feel good. Can I do that?” 

Sherlock bites his lip and nods. “If you want to,” he says, sounding a bit nervous, but John thinks he understands: there was safety in the very speed at which everything happened yesterday. Taking it slower makes it more intimate still. 

It’s an effort to let his walls down; it’s not something he’s naturally good at, but John makes a valiant effort to bring everything he feels for Sherlock come into his eyes and voice, feeling like he’ll overflow with the warmth of it all. “I want to,” he says softly. “So much, Sherlock.” He kisses him on the lips again, then moves his mouth to Sherlock’s throat. This, he can do: he can say it with his lips and hands and body. With one hand, he presses his palm to Sherlock’s and lets their fingers twine together. With the other, he strokes Sherlock’s chest, rubbing his fingertips over the hardened nub of Sherlock’s left nipple while bending his mouth to tongue at the right one. Sherlock inhales sharply and John raises his head. “Is this okay?” he asks, very directly. “Are you comfortable?” 

“I don’t think that ‘comfortable’ is the correct term, but – yes,” Sherlock says, his voice punctured with breath. “It’s – really good. Don’t – don’t stop. Please.” 

Relieved, John smiles at him. “Okay,” he says, and resumes kissing Sherlock’s chest. He inches lower and puts his lips and tongue to Sherlock’s belly. He rubs his palm along the length of Sherlock’s thigh and settles himself between his legs, coming face-to-face with Sherlock’s cock at last. It’s completely unsurprising to him that Sherlock’s cock is perfect in every imaginable way. It’s a little over seven inches and lying flat up against his lower belly, rosy in its arousal and perfectly straight. The hair there is soft and dark, tastefully groomed without being over the top, and John’s mouth waters just looking at it. He can feel the tension in Sherlock’s quivering thighs, so he looks up the length of Sherlock’s body to meet his eyes. “God, you’re beautiful,” he says, meaning it so much it hurts. He feels the tremor that runs through Sherlock’s body. “I can’t believe I’m finally allowed to do this.” 

Their hands are still linked and Sherlock’s fingers and legs both tighten at this. “John – ”

“Yeah?” John rubs his thumb over the knuckle of Sherlock’s. 

Sherlock swallows. “Nothing. Sorry. I just can’t quite believe this is happening, either.” 

John smiles at him. “May I?” he asks, and Sherlock nods jerkily. John takes his cock with his free hand and brings it to his mouth, then wraps his lips and tongue around the head. Sherlock gasps, shocks reverberating tangibly through his frame. John is gentle, going slowly, moving his mouth down Sherlock’s length, not wanting to overstimulate him. Sherlock’s legs are moving and he’s exhaling vocally, nearly hyperventilating, his free arm thrown across his eyes. His fingers are tightening rhythmically, in time with John’s mouth bobbing up and down his cock. John uses his tongue to the best of his ability, trying to remember what he’s liked the best, wanting to reproduce it for Sherlock. His own cock is practically drilling holes into the mattress, he’s so turned on. The very taste of Sherlock’s leaking arousal is fuelling his desire. No one else has ever tasted this. Only him. 

He starts going faster. Sherlock’s body is tauter than a piano string, straining for it. He’s moaning unrestrainedly now, unable to contain it. “J-John,” he gets out, “if you don’t stop, I’m going to – ”

John makes a hummed sound of agreement directly into Sherlock’s flesh, lifts off just long enough to encourage him. “Please,” he says, his own voice wrecked with arousal. “Come in my mouth, Sherlock – I want you to – ” He goes back to sucking Sherlock off, squeezing his arse from beneath and pulling him deeper into his throat. He feels it a split second before it happens. Sherlock cries out, then his breath chokes off and tremors shake through his body. He comes in hot spatter against the back of John’s throat, buried so deeply there that John doesn’t even taste it. There’s another gasp of breath and then he’s spurting again, his entire frame convulsing. John swallows and swallows, then pulls back so that only the head of Sherlock’s cock is in his mouth, massaging the head of it as the last of it ebbs out onto his tongue. 

“God!” Sherlock pants, letting go of John’s hand to put all ten fingers into his hair. He seems incapable of saying anything else.

John slides up and takes Sherlock’s hot face in both hands and kisses it everywhere: his flushed cheeks, his hot eyelids, the line of his jaw, his chin, his forehead. He gets his arms under Sherlock’s back and holds him as he comes down, not pushing for him to reciprocate, not wanting to hurry anything at all, his stiff cock notwithstanding. “You’re amazing,” he murmurs into Sherlock’s jaw, kissing it again. “You’re absolutely phenomenal.” 

“Says the man who just made me see stars,” Sherlock says hoarsely, still breathing hard. He reaches for John’s face and they kiss, and it’s both hard and tender at the same time. “I need to touch you – tell me how you want me to – ”

“Anything,” John says honestly. “Anything you want is fine by me.” 

Sherlock blinks, touches his tongue to his lips, then says, “Anything?” 

“Yes, wh – ” John starts to ask, but Sherlock interrupts him. 

“I want you to fuck me.”

He delivers this succinctly, his gaze unwavering, and John’s cock gives a throb so hard he actually has to grab at it, a bloom of wetness leaking out. He swallows. “That seems a bit sudden,” he tries, though it’s hard to speak through the arousal flooding his system. 

“I’m ready,” Sherlock persists. His eyes are open and somehow particularly transparent, blue as a summer sky, and it makes John’s chest tighten. “I – prepared myself,” Sherlock adds. “Just in case.”

John gazes at him, unable to find the right words to counter this. Indecision wars within him. “I – but – ”

Sherlock smiles suddenly. “You don’t even know how long I’ve wanted this. It’s one of the many reasons why you never had anything to worry about regarding Irene Adler.” 

“Because you wanted a cock in you?” John asks, needing to swallow again. 

“Because I wanted _your_ cock in me,” Sherlock corrects him, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Wasn’t going to get that from the Woman. Or anyone else. It was only ever you, John.”

A lump forms in John’s throat and for the moment, he can’t speak. He leans forward swiftly and kisses Sherlock, hard. Sherlock clutches at him and kisses back with equal force. John hears himself make a desperate sound into Sherlock’s mouth and gets a leg around Sherlock’s hips, and Sherlock reaches between them and takes John’s cock in hand, squeezing and rubbing it gently, but not so much as to make him come. John moans and puts his hand over Sherlock’s, squeezing. 

Sherlock breaks off the kiss. “We could just do this,” he says. “But – do you want to – do that?” 

John searches Sherlock’s face. He can see the careful mask of politeness, and below that he can see transparently clear yearning. He nods, swallowing down his heart, which is still wedged in his throat. “Yeah,” he says, his voice rough. “I really do. I want that so much.” 

“John – ” Sherlock is kissing him again, and as they kiss, he presses a long, thin tube into John’s hand. 

John understands and gets the lid off. “Like this?” he asks against Sherlock’s lips, squeezing one of his arse cheeks. 

Sherlock nods. “This is – good.” 

John’s heart is beating so loudly that Sherlock must be able to hear it. “Okay,” he says, and it comes out in a whisper. He fumbles with the lube until he’s got a goodly amount on his fingers, then reaches back, searching for the heat of Sherlock’s entrance. He massages a little first, probing, checking verbally with Sherlock every so often, then slides his middle finger into the heat of Sherlock’s body. Sherlock’s breathing is quick and shallow. John looks down between them and sees that he’s already getting hard again. He kisses Sherlock’s long, pale throat and licks the salt tang of his skin. “Does it feel good?” he asks. His own body is trembling with the effort of holding back, but he would happily do this for Sherlock all day, just touch him, make him feel special, like he’s the only thing that matters. (He is.) 

Sherlock’s chin jerks in a nod. “Very much so,” he confirms, his voice shaking. 

John swallows yet again and keeps going, adding another finger. Sherlock’s body is hot and tight around his fingers and the very notion of having his cock in that same heat is almost impossible to even imagine right now without putting himself in serious danger of coming completely untouched. 

It’s as though Sherlock heard his thought. He opens his eyes and looks straight into John’s soul, or so it feels. “Now,” he says. “Please, John – I want this. Want you.” 

John swallows audibly. “Okay,” he says, his voice husky. He bends over Sherlock, turning him onto his back as they kiss, slicking himself subtly as they do. “Can we try it like this?” he asks, just above a whisper. “I – I want to see your face, the first time – ”

Sherlock nods, his lips parted, his eyes riveted to John’s. His legs have fallen open, knees pulled up. John is almost in position already. His eyes are on Sherlock as he shifts a little lower, guiding himself, and then he’s there. He can almost see Sherlock’s thoughts, he thinks, his heart thumping heavily in his chest. Sherlock is breathing hard, as much from emotion as from arousal, John feels. He pushes inside, and it’s so tight that he almost cries out. He and Sherlock both gasp out their breath, Sherlock’s mouth opening wider, lines forming around his eyes, but he doesn’t break their eye contact. 

“Okay?” John breathes, halfway inside, and Sherlock nods. 

“Keep going,” he gets out. There’s an almost ethereal glow to his skin, a light sheen of sweat that makes him look transcendent. John spares a moment of absolute incredulity that he’s the one person on the planet allowed to be with Sherlock this way. 

He feels the heat of Sherlock around him like burgundy, like velvet. It’s hot and the slide of the friction is almost overwhelming. He looks down between them and nearly comes on the spot, seeing their bodies connected this way for the first time. He’s sunk into Sherlock to the root, and Sherlock’s body is spasming, the muscles trying to relax around him. John strokes his face. “All right?” he asks, barely able to speak. “It’s not too – ”

Sherlock shakes his head minutely, still breathing hard. “No – I want this – ”

“Me too, but let’s give it a moment,” John says. 

“Kiss me,” Sherlock requests, so John does. As it goes, he feels Sherlock’s body actively unclenching and allowing him there, and when he begins to move, it’s with a sound of heartfelt agreement on Sherlock’s part to his non-verbal question into the kiss. 

John starts carefully, just rocking in and out perhaps an inch or so, then more as Sherlock’s muscles relax. The kiss breaks off as they pant, eyes locked together again. Sherlock is so tight around him, tighter than anyone else he’s been with, and John is swimming in pleasure so heady that he’s dizzy. He begins to moan and Sherlock echoes him, reaching down to grasp at his arse, his legs crossing over John’s back as he thrusts. They’re in a steady rhythm now, their breathing and moaning all in sync, too, and suddenly it’s not enough. John’s hips are pumping themselves hard, slamming into Sherlock now, and that’s fine because Sherlock’s making sounds of wholehearted want, hands gripping him. His fingers are dug into the meat of John’s clenching arse, just painful enough to feel incredibly good. Sherlock is writhing and sounding utterly desperate, so John reaches to touch him and Sherlock comes the instant John closes his fist around his cock. He shouts out and that alone does it – John feels the surge roll over him in a hot wave that prickles down over his skin, his balls tightening, and then he’s erupting in streams, flooding Sherlock with his release, his hips pinned to Sherlock’s arse, cock buried as deeply as it can go. He can feel the breath rasping out over his throat and knows he’s got to be making a lot of noise himself, but it can’t be helped and he doesn’t care anyway – all that matters is that he’s coming and coming and the world could be ending and it wouldn’t matter, because he’s completely incapable of doing anything but shooting out his release into Sherlock’s body. 

When the wave releases its grip on him, John sags onto Sherlock in a boneless heap, his back heaving as he pants. Sherlock’s hands are still on him, lazy now, stroking up and down his back, and they lay together that way for a timeless drift, afternoon sunlight streaming in through the bedroom curtains and warming his back and legs. 

Sherlock moves his right hand to John’s head, his fingers combing through John’s hair. “I love you,” he says.

A shock of joy goes through John like a bolt. He lifts his head to look into Sherlock’s face. “Do you?” he asks, his heart coming into his throat again. 

Sherlock nods, his eyes sober. “Always,” he says, and John’s heart contracts almost painfully. 

“I love you, too,” he says, his throat horribly tight, but he gets it out, manages to say it. It’s true. (It’s always been true, if he’d had the guts to look it in the eye from the very start.) Sherlock pulls his head down and they kiss for a long moment, John’s softening cock still inside Sherlock. He’s never felt so close to another person in all his life before, not even fractionally. After a long while, he releases Sherlock’s mouth. “God, Sherlock – I could never say it before, any of it. I could never just – get myself out of my stupid rut.” 

Sherlock’s shoulder twitches against the sheets. “I was no better,” he says. “Possibly I even made it worse, just going along with whatever you decided. I was just grateful to have you as my friend again. I didn’t want to rock the boat, make you angry with me again. For all the good that did. I thought I would never be able to make a satisfactory friend and simply didn’t allow myself to hope for anything more. The more I did, the worse it seemed to get.”

John shakes his head. “My fault,” he says. He gently pulls himself out now and shifts to the side to be less heavy on Sherlock, but leaves his leg draped over Sherlock’s thigh, an arm across his chest. He props up his head on his other hand. “I’ve been dreaming about the well ever since it happened,” he tells Sherlock. 

Sherlock turns his face to meet his eyes. “At Musgrove Hall.” 

“Yeah.” John strokes Sherlock’s chest, caressing it, still needing to communicate this in every way possible. “Almost every night since then.” 

“What happens in the dreams?” Sherlock asks, looking up at him in that way that makes John’s heart clench. He looks young and trusting and slightly unsure, even now. John wants to make the uncertainty disappear forever, kiss assurance into Sherlock’s skin cells and make him know that he is never, ever going to change his mind about this. Not after how long it’s taken them, or how much they had to go through to get to it. 

“Various things,” he says slowly, about the dreams. “They nearly always started the same way: I’d be there in the well, the water rising higher and higher, starting to panic. The bones would be floating around me, the skull right in front of my face, water spraying into my eyes, and then the light would come on and you’d be there, saying my name and telling me that everything was going to be all right, the way you did. Except then, instead of what really happened, instead of one of Mycroft’s men coming down the rope to dive into the water and cut the chains while you looked down and talked me through it, you always came down yourself.” 

“I should have,” Sherlock says, berating himself. “I thought so even then. I should have come down myself.” 

“No – that doesn’t matter,” John says firmly. “You were fantastic, on the day. You were the one who kept me calm, kept encouraging me as I climbed up. You were waiting with towels, changing them out until I was dry enough for the blanket, and I remember the way you helped me over the lip of the well and then didn’t let go. And that hug – that was a good hug. I can still feel it. And there was no point in us both getting chilled to the bone in our clothes. The agent had a wet suit and diving training. You didn’t.” 

“Still,” Sherlock says, his lips compressing. “I know you thought I’d forgotten you, or that I wasn’t coming. I was – I just had to get the answer from Eurus before you drowned.” 

“I know that,” John reassures him. “I’ve known that since the day.” He smiles into Sherlock’s eyes. “What I haven’t said yet is that somehow these dreams kept turning into sex dreams. I don’t know why – they always started as nightmares, but then you were there and instead of even bothering to get out of the well, we’d start kissing, and sometimes more. I always woke up jerking off frantically and then hating myself for feeling like I was permanently stuck in that well of wanting this and never being able to say so, to do anything to make it happen.” 

Sherlock studies him for a long moment, his eyes sober. “In that case, thank God for Irene,” he says, a touch dryly. “Who knew _that_ would be the catalyst to finally get us past our own stupidity?” 

“Not that she meant to,” John retorts testily. “She had every intention of taking you for herself, obviously. That note she left on Mary’s pillow – I mean, she came all the way out to the suburbs just to gloat at me. She knew how I felt. She’s always known. And she also knew that I was totally incapable of bringing it about, and was tormenting me over it.” 

“She’s used to getting her way,” Sherlock says philosophically. “But this is one thing which she will never have. I’ve always been on permanent reserve for you, you know.” 

John feels something in his chest loosen, something which has been kept very tight for a very long time now. “Well, I’m claiming it at last,” he says, and if it comes out a bit gruff, Sherlock doesn’t mind in the slightest. 

“Finally,” he says, a distinct air of triumph to it, and he pulls John down to himself again. 

*** 

They get to lunch eventually, sometime in the mid-afternoon, half-dressed and wearing Sherlock’s dressing gowns. They decided to declare themselves finished working on the house for the time being in favour of devoting the rest of the weekend to discovering this new thing between them. They cook and eat and talk for long stretches of time. They talk about Mary, at last. They talk about the snipers again, and Moriarty and Eurus. They talk about the future. After supper, Sherlock asks him to move back in, and John agrees at once. They talk about Rosie, about converting John’s old room for her. They talk a bit about what they’ll do for child care when a case comes up, and agree that some sort of standing arrangement will need to be put into place if John is going to go on working with Sherlock. They discuss a nanny, but neither of them feels enthusiastic about this option. 

“After all this time, I just want you,” Sherlock says. “Though I’m hardly in a position to be protesting. It’s not my child.” 

“No, but it affects you,” John argues. “Maybe I shouldn’t, but after all this time, I just want you, too.” 

Sherlock takes their plates from John’s hands and puts them in the sink, rinsing them off. “Are we rushing things?” he asks over the sound of the running water. “Is it too soon to be talking about you moving in?” 

“No,” John says at once. “I’m just moving _back_ in. We’ve already lived together. For other people, it might be too fast, but for us – it’s more like we did it out of order. Besides, we’ve been apart for long enough now, don’t you think?” 

“Agreed,” Sherlock says. “I just didn’t want to – I don’t know. Put too much pressure on it.” 

John shakes his head and puts a hand on Sherlock’s back. “I think if we survived the rest of that, we’re going to be just fine from here on in.” 

Sherlock studies him for a moment, then kisses him. The kiss goes on longer than what he obviously first intended, but neither of them is protesting. John sets down the forks Sherlock didn’t take from him and gets his arms around Sherlock’s back properly. Sherlock’s got him pinned up again the cupboards and John can feel himself responding physically already. There’s something about Sherlock’s tall, lanky form, his hips trapping John against the counter like this that pushes interesting buttons for him. In fact, he’d be hard-pressed to say which of them was leading and which was following, but maybe it’s not as simple a question as that. Sherlock lifts off, studying him as his fingers deftly slip the button out of John’s jeans, then insert themselves dexterously directly into John’s underwear to stroke him in a grip firm enough to make John’s knees just about give way. 

He inhales deeply and kisses Sherlock all the harder, bucking into his fist. Sherlock’s tongue and lips are every bit as firm as his hand and John hears himself make a sound of profound appreciation. And then Sherlock drops swiftly to his knees. John opens his eyes. “Wh-what are you – oh, _God_!!” The polite protests die on his lips as Sherlock closes his own around John’s cock without the slightest sign of reluctance or hesitation. It’s so blatant, too, right here in the kitchen at eight in the evening, when anyone could walk in. He thinks of Mrs Hudson popping round for a chat, as she sometimes does, but instead of finding the idea agonisingly humiliating, his treacherous cock gives a fierce throb within the hot, wet harbour of Sherlock’s mouth at the thought of it, of being caught.

Sherlock is using John's own technique right back on him, and it feels amazing. John’s leaning against the cupboards, one hand gripping Sherlock’s hair while the other rubs at his own chest. His cock was already at least halfway there when Sherlock started touching him; now it’s filled out and is harder than rock in Sherlock’s wickedly talented mouth. He covers his mouth with the back of his hand to stifle his own moaning, just in case Mrs Hudson is in. He can feel himself leaking copiously as Sherlock sucks him, can feel Sherlock’s throat moving as he swallows it down, as though hungry for it, and that thought makes John even harder. He’s fighting not to pump into Sherlock’s mouth, not to choke him or go too hard. He uncovers his mouth to reach back and grip the edge of the counter, teeth gritting, and Sherlock seems to know instinctively and goes faster, his tongue cupping the underside of John’s cock and it’s so good John could just about explode. He makes a choked off sound and Sherlock looks up at him, all innocence, and makes a hummed sound of question. 

That does it. “Yes – !!” It’s too late for warnings. John’s hips punch forward and he comes in streams into Sherlock’s mouth, his balls practically leaping, it’s so strong. He feels Sherlock swallowing around him, his long throat moving, still sucking as more of it comes, his lips and tongue rubbing at him until he’s completely spent. 

Then, as John sags weakly against the counter, Sherlock stands swiftly, saying his name, his voice ragged with arousal, and John surges forward and kisses him hard, tasting himself. Both their hands are scrabbling at the front of Sherlock’s trousers. He can already feel how hard Sherlock is; it’s pressing against the zip of his trousers as though fighting to get out and the instant John gets his hand on it, Sherlock groans into his mouth. 

“Yes – please – ” he pants, then tilts his head back, mouth open in clear, obvious pleasure, eyes fluttering closed as John jerks him off. He’s pushing into the circle of John’s fist and John loves it, loves seeing Sherlock so turned on that he can’t help it.

He bends forward and bites at Sherlock’s neck, closing his lips and tongue around it and Sherlock makes a high-pitched keening sound and thrusts even harder. John grips and strokes and murmurs dirty encouragement into Sherlock’s neck and ear and Sherlock cries out and fills his hand with hot release, release that John rubs over him as he comes again, his cock jerking and pushing out still more. 

Sherlock wilts against him, his mouth open in John’s hair, their arms around each other. John surreptitiously wipes his hand on a tea towel within reach and then holds Sherlock to himself. It feels like coming home, at last, to a home he’s never seen before but always knew he would recognise. After a bit, Sherlock starts kissing his hair, his breath hot, and says, “Do we really just get to have this now?” 

John’s arms tighten. “I think we do, believe it or not,” he says, but he can hear the wonder in his own voice, too. He reaches for Sherlock’s face and their eyes hold for a moment first, seeing all of it reflected back in each other’s faces, and then John kisses him again. 

*** 

It’s Sunday evening. They’ve finished dinner (butter chicken and naan from the place around the corner) and are on the sofa now, and John sighs. 

Sherlock turns his head to look at him, simultaneously muting the television. “What’s that for?” 

“I just got a text from Harry while we were eating, reminding me that she’s bringing Rosie home at eight. I’ll have to go in about ten minutes and I don’t want to,” John says frankly, looking at their hands, their fingers interlocked on Sherlock’s thigh. 

Sherlock gazes at him soberly. “I find this completely unacceptable. I can’t be without you tonight. I’ll – suffocate. Starve to death. I need to be with you.” 

“I know, but – Rosie,” John says helplessly. 

Sherlock smiles. “There’s an obvious solution,” he says. “I’ll come with you.” 

John feels his brows shoot upward. “You’ll come with me – to Mary’s flat?” he repeats. 

Sherlock shrugs. “If that’s where you’re going to be, then that’s where I’m going to be,” he announces. “Problem?” 

John leans over and kisses him fiercely. They’re half in each other’s laps by time it finishes several minutes later. John releases Sherlock and says, “Not a problem. Come on, then. I hate giving Harry even more reasons to think I’m a subpar human being in general and father in specific. Let’s get a cab.” 

“I’ll just grab a change of clothes,” Sherlock says. “I’ll be two seconds.” 

“Okay. I’ll just put the wine back in the fridge,” John says, corking the chardonnay they’d opened. They only had a glass each, but he rinses out his mouth thoroughly, not wanting to earn himself Harry’s disapproving gaze should she smell wine on his breath. He’d never hear the end of it. 

They reach the flat ten minutes before Harry and Liz do, and John is pleased with himself for being as happy as he is to see Rosie again. He takes his time over her bedtime ritual, leaving Sherlock chatting fairly comfortably with Harry and Liz in the sitting room downstairs. When Rosie is changed and tucked comfortably into bed, John closes her bedroom door softly and goes back downstairs. Sherlock is on the sofa, so he goes and sits down beside him, quite close. Liz is perched on the arm of Harry’s chair. 

She addresses him first. “Sherlock was just telling us that the two of you have finally got together,” she says, tucking a strand of long, wheat-blond hair behind her ear. “Congratulations!” 

John’s smile breaks over his face before he can help it. “Thanks,” he says, glancing at his sister. “Though you knew that already.”

“Of course, but it’s still nice to hear about it,” Liz says. “I always thought you belonged together.” 

“He was always too busy ‘not being gay’,” Harry tells her, rolling her eyes. 

“That’ll do,” Liz admonishes her, but squeezes her hand visibly at the same time, and Harry subsides, only to change tacks. “You know how confusing bisexuality can be. How many stories have we heard from our friends? You know it’s easier in our situation.”

Harry concedes the point, then turns back to John. “He also said that you’re going to be moving into Baker Street again,” Harry says, the statement a challenge. 

John nods. “Yup. Probably in the next day or two. We haven’t really discussed the specifics yet.” 

“If you want to borrow the minivan, you can,” Liz offers. 

Sherlock glances at him, then says, “That would be very helpful. Thank you.” 

John decides to cut off the host of objections forming on his sister’s face from the outset. “Look,” he says. “It’s all going to be fine. We’re going to convert the upstairs bedroom into a room for her. We’ll bring everything from here. She’ll have all of her things. And you two can still see her whenever you want.” 

Harry absorbs this, then sits back and looks at Liz. They exchange some sort of look that John is at a loss to interpret, but all she says is, “Okay. Sounds like a plan.” 

Liz squeezes her hand again. “We should go,” she says to Harry. “Give these two lovebirds their space.” 

She twinkles at them and John tries not to sigh. “Thanks so much for the weekend,” he tells them, getting to his feet as they do. “It really means a lot to me. To both of us.” 

Again, they both seem curiously short on commentary. “No problem,” Liz says, and tugs Harry toward the door. The goodnights are said, and then they’re alone, save for Rosie sleeping upstairs. 

Sherlock looks around the room with slight distaste. “I never did like this flat,” he says. 

“Neither did I,” John tells him dryly. He checks the time. “Do you want to watch a film or something? It’s only half-past eight.” 

“Sure, as long as it’s not one of Mary’s DVDs,” Sherlock says. 

John snorts out a laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous!” He shows Sherlock his DVD collection, many of which he already owned when they first lived together. He stands behind Sherlock as Sherlock peruses the options and puts his arms around Sherlock’s waist. “Pick something good,” he murmurs, kissing Sherlock’s shoulder. “I want to be too absorbed in it so that we don’t get distracted and start snogging in the middle of it. Because I can’t wait to fuck you in Mary’s bed. Maybe you can aim to come on her pillow.” 

Sherlock makes a sound of definite interest at this. “Vindictive,” he comments, with amusement. He pulls out _Spectre_. “Remember our old Bond nights? This is one we’ve never seen together.” 

“Perfect,” John says, and it is. 

*** 

He takes immense pleasure that night in trying out rimming for the first time, Sherlock whimpering into Mary’s pillow as John licks him into ecstasy, tongue stabbing deep into the heat of Sherlock’s body. He gives Sherlock’s cock the occasional stroke, just enough to keep Sherlock right on the edge and all but begging. By the time he does beg, John is so far gone he can’t say no, his cock already slicked with lube and fighting to get into Sherlock again. He sinks into Sherlock with a sound which is both relief and pleasure in one. They’ve never tried it on their hands and knees like this so far and it feels primal and a bit dirty and John loves it in particular for where they are: the hostile environment of the bedroom he so reluctantly shared with Mary. He remembers sleeping so far from her that he barely knew she was in the bed, which was what he wanted, a solid metre of space separating them. Sometimes she would turn in the night and try to snuggle up to him, and he would turn away from her to face the wall. He can count the number of times they had sex after he came back, after she’d shot Sherlock. It was fewer than ten times. He just couldn’t work up any enthusiasm for it. Not with her. 

Now, however, his enthusiasm is showing no signs of flagging. He’s pounding into Sherlock, both of them moaning and trying to contain it for Rosie’s sake, bodies slapping together as John fucks Sherlock as hard as he knows how, both hands on Sherlock’s hips. 

“Pull my hair!” Sherlock gasps out and John bends forward to rest his weight on Sherlock’s back and does it, simultaneously reaching around to tug at his cock. Sherlock bucks in his arms and comes, his arse clenching rhythmically around John’s cock and that does it for him, too – a stream of profanity comes out his mouth in a breathless gasp and then he’s moaning and moaning, shooting stream after stream of release into Sherlock’s body. 

He keeps going, panting, hips circling loosely, not wanting to pull out just yet. He rubs Sherlock’s chest and hugs him to himself. “That was amazing,” he gets out, willing himself not to drool onto Sherlock’s back. 

“Quite,” Sherlock pants. “Also, you’ll be pleased to know that my aim seems to be about on par with my targeting skills.” 

“Oh?” 

“I seem to have reduced your wife’s pillow to quite a disgusting mess,” Sherlock informs him, sounding smug, and John starts to laugh. 

“Let’s see!” he orders, shifting and pulling himself out. Sherlock wasn’t kidding; he managed to come – copiously – all over the pillow that Mary used to use. He admires it, simultaneously remembering that she never told him that she’d once levelled a sniper’s rifle at his head. More than once, if she was at the pool, too. What a disaster. This petty revenge seems very small in comparison, yet it’s still immensely satisfying. “You’re phenomenal,” he says proudly, and Sherlock laughs and nudges him onto his back, crawling on top of him. 

“Good thing we only need one pillow, anyway,” he says, settling himself like a boneless jungle cat directly onto John before claiming his mouth again. 

John reaches for the dirty pillow and pushes it onto the floor, then pulls the blankets up over them both. This is the single best thing that’s ever happened in this bedroom, at least as long as he’s been a tenant of this flat. Between his dysfunctional marriage and Irene’s uninvited presence, having sex with Sherlock in this bed could only serve to redeem it a little bit. That’s nice, actually, John thinks, as he drifts off to sleep. It will be a better memory of this place when he leaves it behind for good. 

*** 

_The water is spraying into his face, rising up around his neck and flowing into his collar. He is going to drown. The skull bobs in front of him, its ghastly grin taunting him over his inevitable fate._

_The light comes on above. “John!” Sherlock shouts, and John looks up, squinting through the water and the light at him. “They’re shutting the water off! Just hold on!”_

_“Sherlock!” He sounds desperate and he knows it, but he can’t help it. It’s the only thing that comes to his lips._

_Sherlock drops the rope down to him. “Grab on,” he calls down. “I’m coming for you!”_

_Relief floods John’s frame, his teeth chattering from the cold. He clings to the rope and holds it as steady as he can as Sherlock strips off his coat and climbs quickly down to him. John reaches for him the instant Sherlock has lowered himself into the cold, dark water with him, and they kiss passionately, not even waiting this time. John wraps his legs around Sherlock, or tries, pressing his body to Sherlock, but his movements are hampered by the chains. “Sorry,” he says, when Sherlock breaks off, looking slightly disturbed. “Best I can do.”_

_Sherlock’s frown grows. “That will never do,” he says. “It’s not enough. We have to get you out of here for good. A well is no place to stay.”_

_“But the chains,” John protests._

_Sherlock smiles. “Do you love me?” he asks. “Do you really love me?”_

_“Of course I do,” John protests, as though they’ve already talked about this a thousand times._

_Sherlock’s voice is almost dreamy over the sound of the echoing water. “Then there are no chains, John. Come on. Let’s get out of here and go home. No one’s going to pull us. We’ve got to climb out ourselves.”_

_John nods. Suddenly it all seems clear. “Okay,” he says, and starts to climb. Sherlock is right there with him, urging him on, and when they reach the top, they scramble over the edge together. The blanket is around them both and they’re naked in each other’s arms –_

John wakes with a start, gasping. He’s thrusting against Sherlock, face-to-face, their arms and legs wound around each other. Sherlock is blinking sleepily but breathing hard and John gets that this must have started while they were both asleep. No matter – Sherlock is waking rapidly and wraps his hand around both their cocks and it feels amazing. John groans, the pleasure coiling tightly in his gut and building. They come at almost the same instant, wetness gushing out between them audibly, John’s hand clutching Sherlock’s back as it happens. Their faces are side-by-side on the same pillow, Sherlock’s breath on his lips, his own on Sherlock’s as they pant. When he can speak again, John says, still breathing hard, “It was the well again, Sher – this is the well. The well was Mary and everything that came with her. Moriarty. Eurus. Irene. All of it. We don’t have to stay there. I don’t want to stay here.” 

He’s babbling, making no sense, but Sherlock is studying his face in the dark of the room and seems to be following regardless. “We don’t have to,” he says, his brow creased. “We can go anywhere you like.” 

“I mean – this flat,” John goes on, trying to make sense. “I want to move out first thing in the morning and never come back. Can we do that?” 

Sherlock nods, still looking a little confused. “Of course,” he says. He combs his fingers through John’s hair. “Anything,” he says, his voice gentle now, soothing. His lips are on John’s forehead. “Anything you want.” 

“I don’t want to go back to the clinic.” Now that it’s started, it’s hard to stop. “I don’t want to stay home all the time. I want to work with you again. That’s all I want.” 

“Yes. All right.” Sherlock is rubbing his back now. “What else do you want?” he asks. 

John opens his eyes. “You,” he says plainly. “Forever. I want to marry you.” 

Sherlock smiles. “Is that a proposal?”

John thinks about it for all of two seconds. “Yes. I’ll get a ring and do it properly, but – yes. Absolutely.” 

“I accept,” Sherlock says promptly. “What else?” 

John searches his mind and heart both. “I think those are the big things. Everything else is – details.” 

Now Sherlock does frown a little. “What about Rosie?” 

John shrugs. “It’s fine. She’ll have the upstairs room. We’ll figure something out. The important thing was to – to finally acknowledge what I really want. Finally. No more unsaid things. I love you. I want this. I want you. For the rest of my life.” 

Sherlock swallows, and suddenly his face is terribly serious. “Then you have it,” he says, and kisses John for a very long time, their arms tight around each other, nothing between them now but the evidence of their own union. The freedom John feels is so intense that he almost can’t tell whether it’s terrifying or euphoric, but it’s decidedly the latter, he knows. He holds Sherlock even closer and kisses him as though the world is burning down around them. It wouldn’t even matter now. 

*** 

They move John out a few hours later, Harry bringing by the minivan as promised. She offers to take Rosie home with her while they move, but John says they’ll manage, and they do. They pack all of Rosie’s things and most of John’s. They take his clothing and books and DVDs and CDs and leave most of the rest. There’s a box or two of his things from uni days that they take, and Sherlock’s eyes gleam at the sight of another box labelled _BA Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers_ , so they take that, too. The entire thing takes them under two hours. By noon, they’re eating lunch – a lasagna Mrs Hudson brings up to eat with them – and John’s things are unpacked and put away, Rosie’s cot and nappy changing station are already rebuilt, and she’s playing peacefully in her playpen in the sitting room as they drink coffee and discuss the rest of the day. 

And just like that, things fall into a very comfortable, very happy routine – well, as routine as life with Sherlock ever was before. They start taking cases again, and for the most part, it goes well. The only bumps are during a case they get into John’s second week back at Baker Street when Lestrade calls at night time twice, and both times, John is forced to stay home with Rosie. Mrs Hudson has stated firmly that an eighty-year-old woman should be spared emergency overnight child care duty, godmother or no, and John is reluctant to call Harry or Molly in the middle of the night. He hates letting Sherlock go on his own, and though he tries his best to hide it, it’s obvious that Sherlock is disappointed, too. The second night, he doesn’t come back until eight in the morning, exhausted and favouring his right arm. When John insists on seeing it, Sherlock winces and admits that their suspect winged him in an alley. 

“Did you get him?” John asks, stitching up the wound in the loo, grateful that Mrs Hudson was able to come up to feed Rosie and get her dressed while he looks after Sherlock, at least. At the same time, he’s furious with himself for not having been there. 

“No,” Sherlock says, wincing again, either at the admission or because John is hurting him. “He got away, but we’ll find him on CCTV. He’ll turn up again. Besides, if he’s our man, then we’ll have the shipping receipts soon enough.” 

John semi tunes out the details of the case, which he knows well enough. “Sorry,” he says, meaning the stitches and his absence both. “Only a little more.” This part is only true of the stitches. Will this go on until Rosie is old enough to be left at home on her own? (Would he ever feel that she was safe on her own, especially given their line of work?) John is forced to admit to himself that this is a larger question that he’s been dodging all this while. He finishes the stitches and clips off the nylon thread. He tapes a piece of gauze over it and tamps it down. He’s standing directly between Sherlock’s thighs, and leans in to kiss him on the mouth for a long moment. “I should have been there,” he says apologetically. 

Sherlock makes a neutral sound and ducks in to kiss John again, longer this time. He’s shirtless, and his very proximity is making John hard. “You’re here now,” he says when they next break apart, his voice breathless. 

John looks at his hands rubbing over Sherlock’s back in the mirror, and loves the way they look together. “And here I thought you might be too tired for anything but bed,” he teases. 

Sherlock pulls him closer and slips off the counter so that he can reach John’s arse and pull their pelvises flush together. “Only if you’re in it with me,” he says, voice dropping into the range that makes every hair on John’s body prickle with desire. His cock gets even harder, a wave of arousal sweeping over him. 

“Mrs Hudson is here,” he reminds Sherlock, keeping his voice down. “But I’ll take care of you right here, right now, if you like.” He cups Sherlock through his trousers and kisses him again, hard, and Sherlock moans softly into his mouth and pushes against his hand. John drops to his knees and gets Sherlock’s trousers open and blows him right there in the loo, Sherlock trying to stifle himself with the back of his forearm across his mouth. He scrabbles behind himself to turn on the taps at one point, running them full blast as John sucks and licks and grips him. After he comes, he ruefully shows John the bite marks he’s left in his own skin, then lifts John bodily onto the counter despite John’s surprised protests and bends over him to return the favour. 

John leans his head back against the mirror and tries not to moan as Sherlock’s mouth works over him. He’s awash in sensation and the only thing that could possibly make it any better would be not having to stifle himself, but in a way, that’s almost fuelling it, too. He digs his fingers into Sherlock’s curls and tugs, and Sherlock gets it and goes even harder, his head bobbing up and down almost obscenely, and John loves it. His toes are curling in his socks and when he comes, Sherlock has him all the way down his throat, his nose pushing into the softness of John’s lower belly, not choking or spluttering, his throat contracting around John’s spurting cock. He’s still breathing hard and seeing stars when Sherlock straightens up and pulls John back into his arms, kissing his breathless mouth and his throat and ears and face feverishly. John’s never felt so loved in his life, and he gives it back just as strongly, his legs wrapped around Sherlock’s sides and back. The kiss ends, leaving them hugging fiercely, just revelling in holding each other. “I love you,” John says, his eyes closed, taking the opportunity to be the first one to say it this time. 

“I love you,” Sherlock says, as though giving a countersign. His limbs are going limp with fatigue. 

John lets go gently and nods toward the bedroom. “Go on, get some sleep,” he says. “I’ll keep your phone on me and I’ll wake you if Lestrade and them find any new information.” 

“I hate sleeping without you,” Sherlock grumbles, but John propels him into the bedroom anyway. 

“You’ll be out cold and fully unaware that I’m not there,” he tells Sherlock, with amusement. “I’ll be right here you if you need me.” He strips the trousers the rest of the way off Sherlock’s body and stoops to get his socks off, then his underwear. 

Sherlock climbs into bed and pulls the covers up over himself. “I always need you,” he says sleepily, and John smiles. 

“Likewise,” he says. “Sleep well.” He bends and kisses Sherlock on the lips one more time, then goes out, closing the door behind him. 

In the kitchen, Mrs Hudson is washing the dishes. Rosie is in the playpen. John bends to pick her up and gives her a kiss on the head, and Mrs Hudson appears in the doorframe to ask if he’d like a cup of tea. 

“Sure, but I can make it if you’re doing the washing up,” he says. “I don’t mind.” 

“It’s no trouble,” Mrs Hudson tells him brightly, smiling at him and Rosie. She goes back to make it, and John holds his daughter and thinks that they’re really home now. 

*** 

Harry and Liz invite them over for dinner that weekend, to both their surprise. The case is finished. They caught the suspect Friday afternoon and by then they had the paperwork to prove him guilty. No one got shot this time and John is well satisfied with the way they cornered the thief, thanks to Sherlock’s analysis of where he’d go and why. He was right, of course, and they got him. 

Harry and Liz took Rosie from Friday morning to Saturday, inviting them over for dinner that night to come and collect her. They spend most of the day in bed together, stirring only to forage for food, then return to bed and each other’s arms. Now they’re showered and dressed and duly preparing the salad they were instructed to bring. Sherlock has already confessed himself addicted to John’s mouth and kisses him at every possible opportunity, which delights John to an almost embarrassing extent. The euphoria grows daily, and they’re becoming freer and freer with each other, with saying what they want and how they want it, no matter how candid or graphic or sentimental or personal, and John is in heaven. 

He goes to Sherlock and deposits the spring onions he chopped for the salad into the bowl and Sherlock bends to kiss him in thanks. John puts an arm around his back and draws it out, knowing Sherlock would like that. He likes it, too, frankly. Sherlock is a phenomenal kisser, better than John ever dared dream, and his mouth is perfection. He can hear his own thoughts and knows what he sounds like, but doesn’t even care anymore. He’s far too happy. 

So is Sherlock, clearly. He’s smiling into John’s eyes when the kiss winds down. “Thank you,” he says, meaning the onions. “I’ll just give this a toss and then I think we’re set.” 

“I’ll get the wine,” John says, and makes himself move away to get it from the fridge. Harry said they were making shellfish and requested a white when John offered to bring wine, so there’s a sauvignon blanc chilling on the second shelf. 

They get into a taxi and Sherlock directs the driver to Stoke Newington. Harry and Liz live on a nice street with tall, well-kept houses and a cherry tree blooming just out front. John doesn’t know the details of their finances, but Liz was married to a stock broker once, and apparently did well in the divorce. Meanwhile, Harry’s been sober for five years now and her own career has been blooming. She’s a financial consultant, keeping her own hours, and Liz is a graphic designer who works from home. They’re comfortable, that much is certain. 

Liz answers the door and welcomes them inside. John glances around, admiring the décor and sees that Harry (wisely) let Liz make most of the choices where that was concerned. It’s tasteful, yet artsy. Not dull or beige or stifling. It’s homey, too, with a large bowl of fruit on the kitchen island, hanging plants drooping gracefully in the corners of the sitting room, a glass bowl of roses on the upright piano against the wall, candles lit here and there. Harry comes in and takes the wine from John. Sherlock makes his way into the kitchen to add his vinaigrette to the salad, and John thinks how odd it is that they’ve all become so comfortable together. Though this is a new development; they’ve never just sat down and eaten dinner together. He wonders if there’s some occasion or something. He goes to say hello to Rosie, who is playing with plastic blocks on the sitting room carpet, a foam mat spread out beneath her. 

There is a reason, as it turns out. Dinner progresses well enough, both Sherlock and Harry being civil toward one another. John helps Harry clear the table and almost asks, but decides to wait. Liz brings out coffee and panna cotta with fresh strawberries and chocolate sauce. She serves everyone, then glances at Harry, who clears her throat. Suddenly John feels apprehensive. 

“Look,” Harry begins, a bit gruffly. “There’s something we wanted to talk to you two about. We’re happy that you two are together now and that you’re getting settled in and all that.”

“But,” John prompts, staring at her, his hackles already up despite himself. 

Harry looks exasperated that he’s already prompting her. “If you’ll let me finish, I’ll get to it,” she says testily. 

“Harry,” Liz says gently, and Harry subsides a little. 

She takes off her glasses and cleans them with her serviette. “I understand that you’ve made the decision to work with Sherlock as your main occupation,” she says to John. “That’s fine. I think that’s great. What’s not great is that every criminal in London knows where the two of you live.” 

“It’s fine,” John says, an edge to his voice. “We’re quite good at defending ourselves.” 

“Rosie isn’t.”

Harry delivers this flatly, eyes boring into his, and it feels like a blow to the solar plexus. She’s cut right to the heart of the matter in one stroke and John knows it. He opens his mouth to say something, but his sister doesn’t give him the chance. 

“It’s not a safe environment for her, John, and you know that.” Harry picks up her glass of non-alcoholic cider but doesn’t drink. “It was one thing when you were living out in the sticks. I meant it when I said that I’m glad for you two. I am. But we’re both concerned about Rosie being there with you. And as for the two of you – Sherlock, isn’t it inconvenient, having a baby to worry about when you have a stake-out or a crime scene to go to in the middle of the night?” 

John looks at Sherlock, who reaches for his hand under the table. He laces his fingers into John’s. “Slightly, yes, if we’re being completely honest,” Sherlock answers, his tone even. “However, John has a daughter. It’s simply to be understood that compromises will have to be made.” 

“Not to her safety,” Harry says firmly. “That’s not something you can compromise. It’s one thing for the two of you to be doing whatever you want, but not when you’ve got her there with you.” 

John picks up his dessert spoon but doesn’t touch his panna cotta. “Look… I know I’ve got to figure something better out. You guys have been great about taking her almost any time I ask, but I know it must not be so convenient, not knowing when or for how long and all that. And coming to get her, too.” 

“Actually, it’s a shorter drive to Baker Street than out to Mary’s place,” Liz says. “But we don’t mind that, John. And we’re not trying to accuse you of being a bad parent. Not at all. What we’re trying to say is that we understand the inherent difficulties of doing what you do and having Rosie around at the same time, and we have a solution we’d like to suggest.” 

John feels Sherlock’s fingers tighten in his. (Why? Does he already know what it is? Has he guessed?) “What’s that?” he asks warily, looking from Liz to his sister, who is still fidgeting with her glasses. 

She looks up at him. “We’d like to adopt her,” she says, very directly. 

“No.” The word rises out of him instinctively, before he’s even thought about it. “She’s my daughter. _My_ daughter.” 

“We’ve had her for more of her life than you have,” Harry says quietly. A silence falls over the dining room. 

John is aghast. He looks at Liz. “Is that – is that true?” he asks, wincing internally. His grip on Sherlock’s hand tightens. 

She looks a bit contrite, but nods. “We counted,” she says softly. “It’s not a complaint, John. And – we didn’t quite say that right. I mean, adoption is a possibility, but what we mostly mean is that we’d like to offer to have Rosie here full-time. That’s all. She’ll always be your daughter, no matter what. That goes without saying. It would just spare you the question of what to do with her at nights when you need to be out and about solving crimes, and how to keep her safe. How better? I doubt all those journalists even know you’ve got a sister, never mind where she lives. And you know how much we love her. She’s already got her own room here. We bought a cot months ago, after Mary died. She’s got a swing and toys and clothes, a changing table, bottles – we’ve got everything. And we wanted a child. I work from home – my office is right next to her room, so I’d always be close.” 

“And this is a good neighbourhood,” Harry says, before John can start raising objections. “There are schools and families. It’s quiet and safe. I’m home a lot, too. She’d have two adults who care about her and are related to her looking after her. We’re here in the same city. You could visit whenever you wanted. I – didn’t quite start this off the right way, John. We’re asking both for ourselves and for Rosie. We’re asking because we want this, not just because we think it would be good for her.” 

She stops now, finally giving John a space in which to react. He’s gripping his spoon with his left hand and Sherlock still has hold of his other one. “A baby is not a kitten,” he says stiffly. “You don’t just give it away to a ‘good home’ when it’s inconvenient to have her around.” 

“And yet you have, almost since the day she was born,” Harry argues, spots of red appearing in her cheeks. “You can sound as noble as you want, John, but you’ve had her in your care for about a third of her life. That’s the truth. The rest has been divided up between Molly Hooper, Mrs Hudson, and us. Mostly us. We’re offering her stability, a solid place to be where she doesn’t need to get thrust onto someone at the drop of a hat all the time. It would be better for her. You have to admit that.” 

“I don’t have to admit a damned thing!” John’s voice is loud now, too loud, but he can’t help it. He’s angry and embarrassed, embarrassed because he knows she’s right. He’s been a shit father from the very start. Mary never let him forget that he drove the car rather than sit with her in the back seat on the way to the hospital, which resulted in Sherlock being the first person to touch their child rather than he himself, the one doctor who was actually present at the time. There were the early months, and they had a lot of babysitting done in there already. Then Mary ran off, and he and Sherlock went after her, leaving Rosie behind. Then Mary got herself shot and John dumped Rosie on Molly and Harry and Liz in turns, spending almost no time with her at all, and then the whole thing with Eurus happened. They’re right. He hasn’t been there. And they’re also right that he’ll probably continue to rely heavily on them to care for his child for him. It’s been working pretty well for the past two weeks, he and Sherlock looking after Rosie together. It’s been nice, honestly. He loves Rosie fiercely, despite her parentage, despite everything he’s missed along the way, and this discussion is bringing home exactly how much he does love her. He feels like a failure. Because they _are_ right. They’re far better equipped to look after his daughter than he is. 

Sherlock is still holding his hand, and holding him in silent compassion that John can feel as strongly as though he could see it. Sherlock leans forward a little. “Is there any room for compromise here?” he asks. 

Harry and Liz look at each other. “What do you mean?” Harry asks him, her shoulders stiff. 

Sherlock looks at John. “It’s a large decision,” he says. “As John said, one doesn’t simply ‘give’ a child away. Let’s forget the notion of outright adoption. However, you’ve made some valid points concerning Rosie’s safety.” He looks at John. “It’s hardly my decision, though,” he says, speaking to John alone now. “She’s your daughter. What are you thinking right now?” 

John lets out a long breath and taps his spoon against the table in thought. “I don’t know,” he says, troubled. “I mean… they _are_ right. I’ve been a crap father. And I’ll always have to make the choice between staying home with Rosie or going off with you when the need arises. I hate you going without me. But obviously leaving Rosie alone is out of the question, unless we hire a nanny or something, and there’s nowhere for a nanny to live, unless we force her to live with Rosie around the clock.” 

“The entire notion of you hiring a nanny is ridiculous, given that she has an aunt who is already _asking_ to be allowed to look after her – and for free,” Harry says hotly. 

“Yes, but – ” John starts, and Sherlock interrupts him, gently. 

“What if we shared custody with them?” he asks John, his voice lowered for John alone. 

The concept takes John by surprise. “What do you mean?” he asks cautiously. “What sort of sharing?” 

Sherlock takes a deep breath. “Well, this would be entirely debatable, of course, but… what if we had Rosie every other weekend, and simply made ourselves unavailable for cases whenever she’s with us?”

John turns this over in his head. He withdraws his hand from Sherlock’s and takes an unsteady sip of his coffee. Everyone is watching him, waiting for his reaction. “Just every other weekend?” he asks, his voice as unsteady as his hands. 

Sherlock’s lips press together a little. “They’re right in pointing out that there hasn’t been much stability in Rosie’s life,” he says, a bit apologetically. “It would mean that we could devote the whole of that weekend to nothing but her. No work, no cases, just quiet, domestic life. I think that if it were every weekend, Harry and Liz would rightly protest never getting her when they’re completely free. But perhaps we could keep the arrangement open to adjustment,” he adds, glancing at Liz now. “Or, for instance, should the two of you have something come up, we would obviously be your first go-to for taking Rosie.” 

Harry looks at Liz. “I could live with that,” she says. 

Liz nods. “So could I.” 

“Well, I hope so, since you’d be getting her the vast majority of the time,” John retorts. 

Harry levels him with a glare. “And what _you’d_ be getting is the freedom you’ve always wanted, John,” she points out. “Come on: admit that you’re getting angry because you know I’m right and because you feel guilty about it. That’s fine: you probably should, a bit. But this isn’t about accusations anymore. This is about what’s best for everybody involved. Think about it: what we want is a child in our lives. Who better than our own niece? What Rosie wants is steady, reliable parents who are around all the time, a safe environment to grow up in, love and attention. She’d get that. She’d be getting it from four parents, really. Two men and two women, perfectly balanced. She’d have double the role models and double the love of any child in the world. What you want is the freedom to pursue this crime-solving thing unencumbered by a child. It has nothing to do with how much you love her. And then every other weekend, you’d have her all to yourselves. We’d get a break to go away or whatever, be on our own, and you’d probably have just enough of it before you’d be itching to be on the go again.”

She sits back and watches him, having made her points, and starts in on her dessert now. Liz looks at her, then at John. “We’ve talked about this, at length,” she says, softer than Harry. “We’re completely prepared for the long haul here. We know what it will take and we’re willing to make the sacrifices it takes to raise her. You don’t have to carry that all on your own. And as Harry said, we’re all family now. It’s not like you’d be giving her to strangers, or putting her out of your life. What do you think?” 

John turns the small spoon over in his hands. Sherlock hasn’t touched his panna cotta, either. A long silence stretches itself out. Then, finally, he says, “Yes.” 

It comes out very gruffly, but he said it. Sherlock looks at him. “You’re sure?” he asks. 

John nods. “Yes.” He pulls his panna cotta closer and takes a bite. It’s delicious. Liz is a far better cook than he is. “For all of the reasons mentioned. Yes. And we can talk about the adoption thing, as long as I’m still one of her legal parents. I’m not giving that up for anything, ever.” 

“Then count me in, too, please,” Sherlock says quietly, and John looks at him and wants to tackle him to the floor then and there. That, or possibly burst into noisy sobbing. 

He swallows instead and nods. “Yeah. Okay.” 

Harry lets out a long breath. “Thank you,” she says, and John meets her gaze steadily. To his relief, he doesn’t see any judgement there, only real gratitude. 

He nods again. “Thank you, too. For everything you’ve already done for Rosie. I never say it enough.” 

Liz smiles at him. “Drink your coffee,” she says gently. “It’s probably getting cold.” 

*** 

That night, they put Rosie to bed together, Sherlock reading to her while John changes her nappy. They stand by her cot and wait until her eyes are closed, then shut off the light and go downstairs. Sherlock pours them each a brandy and they sit down on the sofa close together, Sherlock’s arm draped across his shoulders, John’s knees resting on Sherlock’s thigh. 

“Are you all right?” Sherlock asks him, his voice deep and gentle. 

John leans his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Yes and no,” he says after a little. “I feel… relieved. And guilty. But generally, I do think it’s a good decision. For her and for us.” 

“Rosie wasn’t part of the well, then,” Sherlock says, going back to the analogy of John’s recurring dream. 

He shakes his head. “The circumstances that made her, that brought her into my life were, but she wasn’t. It took me awhile to sort out that difference. Mary was the well. Mary getting pregnant was the well. But not Rosie herself.” 

Sherlock swirls the brandy in his glass. “I’m going to be a father,” he says philosophically. “There’s something I never thought to see happen.” 

John smiles into Sherlock’s neck. “Me neither. For either of us, honestly. But here we are.” 

“Here we are,” Sherlock agrees. He turns his head a little and presses a kiss into John’s hair. “Would it be terribly inappropriate of me to suggest that you take me to bed and ravish me? It’s been hours since the last time. Though if you’re not in the mood, considering…” 

John lifts his head and looks into Sherlock’s eyes, his brows rising. “Not in the mood?” he repeats. “For you? Are you out of your mind?” 

Sherlock’s smile widens. “I was hoping you would say that,” he says breezily, and moves closer to kiss John. It goes on, growing and deepening. At some point Sherlock takes the brandy glass from him and sets it down, and John finds himself in Sherlock’s lap, looming over him, Sherlock looking up at him, his cheeks flushed with arousal. “Take me to bed,” he says breathlessly, and John nods, kissing him again. 

“Yes,” he says, and that’s really all that needs to be said now. The chains are broken and the well is gone. Now and forever he can say this: _yes_. 

*


End file.
